Infirmary Talks
by Greenlips24
Summary: Sometimes, among the bandages and candlelight, there is banter and there is angst. This is a series of different fly-on-the-wall conversations between those who find themselves within the four walls of the Infirmary.
1. The Spaniard

**Infirmary Talks**

By Greenlips24

 **Summary**

Sometimes, among the bandages and candlelight, there is banter and there is angst. This is a series of fly-on-the-wall conversations between those who find themselves within the four walls of the Infirmary.

oOo

 **1 - THE SPANIARD**

 **Athos and Aramis:**

 _Pain._

 _Cloying heat, sweat and the smell of blood._

 _Questions and screams._

 _Darkness and shadows._

 _More pain._

 _Oblivion._

oOo

Movement - arms that encircle him; the sway of a wagon.

Pain.

Silence and soft murmurings.

The smell of tincture and salve and candlewax.

Gentle hands and hands that tear at his skin.

Heat.

Oblivion.

oOo

Fingers trace the symbol on his forehead. He does not believe in such ceremony and turns his head away.

It persists.

When he opens his eyes, he finds he is staring at his arm, which lies next to his face on the pillow. He curls his hand into a tight fist; unable yet to distinguish between anger and relief.

Lying on his side with his other arm resting on his hip seems to be the most comfortable position.

Lying on his back is not an option.

"You must stay awake now, Athos," a voice insists. "It has been too long."

The voice seems far away and he ignores it.

 _Awake_ ... when all he has prayed for, for days, is sleep.

A hand takes hold of his jaw and fingers squeeze painfully; making him gasp. His eyes spring open, expecting to see The Spaniard.

Surprisingly, it is not the man whose company he has kept for the past six days.

"Stay awake now," his new tormentor persists.

 _Awake_ ... when the man who now looks at him with kind eyes is obviously the one who has drugged him into sleep.

For his own good, no doubt; he remembers the pain. He had welcomed oblivion.

"Do you know me?" the voice returns, more gentle; now that he has gotten his attention.

"You are the medic," Athos replies through cracked, sore lips.

Aramis frowns; but then he sees the faint glint in his brother's eye; waiting for a reaction.

 _There he is._

Aramis shakes his head and smiles, leaning forward to gently drip water into the parched mouth.

" _Drink_."

oOo

" _The medic_ ," he muses to himself as he continues the steady drip over the next half hour.

How had that happened?

Because there had been no alternative, he knew; and his once-uncomplicated interest had turned to stark necessity. It was a burden, and it was a joy. It twisted his gut and it flipped his stomach. Sometimes brutal, occasionally gentle but when he saw the trust in their eyes; it made his heart soar and his eyes fill.

 _Medic._ He would not pass that mantle over now unless he had no choice. Unless their lives hung by a thread too thin for even his delicate fingers to hold. Fingers that would then wring themselves until the joints screamed. Until _their_ screaming stopped; and they lived on.

There has been no time to pass the mantle this time, but Athos lives on.

Despite The Spaniard.

oOo

"Now, tell me what hurts. The Captain wants a full report."

Athos cracked an eye open with effort and looked at him.

"I see you are considering my request. Don't be stubborn. He was with us when we found you. He is not a fool."

Later:

"How _did_ you find me?"

"He gave you up," Aramis replied, tightly. "We were close. He made sure we saw him and then he rode off. It was the only building and he left it open."

"I don't understand it," Aramis continued, watching Athos carefully.

Athos did not answer; offering no enlightenment.

Aramis usually knew when not to pursue but he could not help himself. It had been ... curious.

However, he tried a different question.

"How did you find yourself in his company?" he ventured, wringing out the cloth.

"I fell into his trap. It was most ingenious."

"You admired him?"

"No."

"What then? He obviously made an impact; in more ways than one."

Athos huffed, acknowledging the attempt at humour without a smile.

"I do not know. I will think on it."

oOo

"Do you want soup, or something to chew?"

Athos knows the tone. All business - not to be deterred.

For a long moment, he thinks and then realises an answer is required.

"I do not think my stomach would welcome either."

"When did you last eat?"

Athos considers; staring at the wall.

"I remember a full moon through a very small window."

Aramis knew the window he spoke of; the only light in the black hellhole they finally found him in.

"That was four days ago, Athos," Aramis says; his voice trailing off.

The statement hung in the air between them; one of them concerned, the other not so; all things considered.

"So," Aramis says a few moments later, when he has composed himself. "Soup or chew?"

Athos closes his eyes, wanting to be left in peace.

He lays in this enforced position with his hand over his eyes, either because of the unaccustomed light or to shut out any unwelcome presence. This morning, in wakefulness, his hand has unconsciously pushed its way up, revealing a bruise that Aramis had not seen yesterday. He puts his own hand there, pushing the swordsman's hand gently aside, to take a closer look. New bruises seem to darken his pale skin by the hour though, so he shouldn't have been surprised.

"I'll bring you that soup."

"I did not make my preference known."

"Something with vegetables!" Aramis continues brightly, realising he is still holding his friend's hair back from his forehead.

"Not onion," Aramis hears, bringing him out of his ruminations. He looks down.

"What?"

"I do not care for onion soup."

"I remember."

He removes his hand and smiles softly; turning to go.

"Shallot, then," Aramis says wickedly; escaping quickly through the door - followed by an angry growl.

As Aramis makes his way down the short corridor, his shoulders slowly straighten and his recent heavy footsteps become lighter as his heart lifts. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face and as he steps outside into the sunshine, the medic greets everyone he meets.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, he is Aramis again.

oOo

"Are you in pain?" the familiar voice asks, drifting in; bringing him back through the haze and to more pain.

Everything hurts.

"No."

"Good. Can you sit up a little?"

Athos groans inwardly. He had asked for that.

"If you help, I will endeavour to do so."

By necessity, he has to open his eyes and his tormentor swims into view; stirring soup.

Putting the bowl down, he offers an arm, which Athos is obliged to grasp. He is gently levered up and a pillow is tossed behind him. It is excruciating, but technically it works remarkably well and the window opposite comes into view, though the shutters are closed; the light still being too much to deal with.

"Soup, with Serge's compliments," came the overly cheerful voice that grates and he grudgingly opens his mouth; immensely irritated that he lacks the strength to even hold the damned spoon on his own.

Oh, but that first spoonful! He knows he will never forget the taste. It floods his senses; the flavour enhanced by starvation.

He manages three spoonfuls.

"It's onion. Sorry," Aramis sighs regretfully. "I know it's not your preference, but it's all Serge had. He's making you something else for later."

"I have changed my mind on it. It is ... commendable."

That seems to please Aramis and his playful mood continues.

"Did you have servants who did this for you?" he asks idly, stirring the cooling soup.

That earns him a glare, as intended. And no response, as expected.

His tormentor persists.

"You must have had help with all your finery, though? All those buttons and frills?"

Silence.

"The shoes," Athos murmurs, surprising Aramis, who nearly drops the spoon. "Mustn't forget the damned buckled shoes."

Aramis laughs.

Athos watches him, before deciding to offer more.

"When I first put on the Musketeer jacket and felt it mould to my body, I thought it the most wonderful garment I had ever worn."

"More than the brocades?" his medic taunts.

"And the velvet," Athos replies, sleepily.

"He was very patient," he suddenly says, catching Aramis unawares and darkening the mood somewhat.

"The Spaniard?"

"Hmm. I think I infuriated him."

Aramis snorts; and receives a raised eyebrow in response.

Aramis composes himself and raises the spoon once more.

" _Eat."_

oOo

" _Sleep."_

Once he was allowed to sleep, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion; allowing himself to be manhandled and manoeuvred. Only then did some semblance of calm permeate his thoughts as he was left to his own devices; waiting for that which he had so longed for.

Aramis had cleared his path, leaving him warm; his thirst quenched and his stomach full.

The creak of the chair told him he was not alone. Other sounds that reached his ears were equally familiar and comforting as life went on around him and he began to feel a part of it once more. The smell of lavender on his pillow and the light touch on his cheek were all he needed, and he finally gave himself permission to sleep.

oOo

"He was a strange type of soldier."

"Why do you say that?" Aramis responded.

"He knew his wine."

"He taunted you?"

"Somewhat."

"And the whipping?" Aramis asked gently.

" _I_ taunted him."

oOo

"Your hands are too cold," Athos complained.

"And you are too hot."

"What a pair we are."

"You challenge me, brother," Aramis whispered, the threaded needle sinking into flayed flesh; some of his previous endeavours broken free.

"You like to learn," a whispered response, ground out through clenched jaws.

"You give me plenty of practise ..."

"I am pleased to be of service."

" _Lie still_."

oOo

"How did you pass the time?"

"He was very inventive. It focussed my mind."

Aramis had washed his face when they first laid him on the table. He had seen the tear tracks that traced down from the corner of his eyes into his beard.

He had washed them quickly away; feeling his own eyes sting.

oOo

"I have often wondered, what is the purpose of the rat?"

Aramis paused, caught unawares by the sudden question.

He considered a moment, before replying.

"All God's creatures have a purpose, mon ami."

"Perhaps you could ask Him the next time you converse."

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I have had occasion to study them of late and the answer eludes me."

Athos did not look at him, having strayed into territory he regretted and not wishing to invite further comment.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, which nearly undid him.

oOo

"Stop you're damned fussing."

"You don't mean that."

"You can be incredibly annoying."

"Then I will leave you in your bed with your mood and find a more congenial companion."

"You said everyone was out."

"Treville is in his office. And I believe His Eminence is in residence today.

There was a brief silence.

"Sit," Athos growled.

Aramis smiled to himself and did as he was told.

oOo

Later, when the sun had set and the shadows lengthened.

"He was persistent," Athos said, quietly, watching as the candle was lit and the flame leapt to attention.

"He realised you would give him nothing," Aramis said; firm in his belief in his dear friend.

"In the end, perhaps," Athos replied, remembering when he could no longer look up at the small window; when he could only see the floor.

Until he could see that no longer.

 _The rope around his neck was so short his forehead was only inches from the stone floor. Caught unaware while he was still on his knees, he had been forced down into that position and now his legs were numb and the unnatural position made his once-honed muscles scream. His bare feet scraped as he was pulled and pushed. His bound hands were now jammed against his chest, making breathing difficult._

 _When he felt the remnants of his shirt torn from him and the first lash across his back, he was almost relieved; fearing he would be left in this painful, impossible position. But it was for another purpose, it seemed._

 _As the punishment continued, he kept his forehead pressed to the floor. Any sudden movement would have led to his strangulation. The occasional crack of his head against the iron ring securing the rope only served as a welcomed distraction._

 _When it was over, he became aware that he was gasping in the stale air he was trying to push from his lungs; his face now pushed against the cold, wet floor. Wet from sweat and tears and the blood from the lip he appeared to have bitten through._

 _Boots drummed slowly past his ear and he caught a glimpse of well-kept black leather._

 _Again fearing he would be left in this position, he shifted back to ease his aching hips, only to feel pain that pushed a silent scream from his lungs and the rope bite against the skin of his throat._

 _Sometime later, the rope was pulled free of its tether. The boot rested briefly, caressing his shoulder, until he was kicked sharply, sending him onto his side, still curled in on himself; his bound, numb hands tight against his chest._

 _He was almost grateful._

oOo

Finally, the question Aramis knew would come.

"Where is Porthos?"

Aramis paused from folding linens, holding them to his chest.

"The short answer is - he's out."

"And the long answer?"

Aramis sighed and sat heavily on the bed, smoothing the linen now lying neatly across his lap.

"He waited until you showed signs of waking, and then he set out to track your Spaniard down."

The moment stretched, as Aramis watched his friend process his words; unsure of his response. His relationship with his tormentor had been complex and Porthos was their cherished friend.

Finally, Athos spoke one word.

"Good."

Aramis relaxed and made to stand.

"And he is not _my_ Spaniard."

oOo

"He let you live," Aramis said, but did not fully understand.

"He gave me a choice; to live or to die."

"What? What did he see in you to offer you that?"

"Something in himself, perhaps."

"A noble end for him? When your rescue was in sight?" Aramis said in disgust, pulling the blanket tighter; his head down so that Athos could not see his face.

"I did not know you were so close," Athos replied quietly. "And the choice was for both of us."

"A pact?!" Aramis whispered, incredulously; his voice having left him.

But Athos just stared past him.

"And you believe he would have honoured your choice, if you had chosen death? Would we have found _two_ corpses, Athos?!"

Athos turned his eyes on him and Aramis saw his question answered.

"You did admire him," Aramis said then.

Athos sighed.

"As one admires a predator. There is a skill in it."

Aramis shivered; seeing in his mind's eye The Spaniard watching them from the hill and then riding away.

"He did not win, Aramis," Athos murmured.

He spoke with his eyes closed, so Aramis could not read him.

"How so? You chose to live," Aramis said quietly. "And in doing so, you allowed _him_ to live."

Athos opened his eyes and looked at him.

"But I had brought out the worst in him. He will have to live with that."

Aramis held his gaze and finally he nodded, some semblance of understanding settling on him.

"Then let us hope Porthos doesn't find him," he said quietly.

"Indeed."

Aramis took his hand.

"Too close, brother," he said, softly. "It was much too close."

"I knew you would come," Athos answered, "I just did not know what you would find."

oOo

"We should lift you up; you cannot lay on your side forever. I'll open the shutters and you can stare at the rooftops of Paris."

"We are on the ground floor and a wall encircles us."

"Use your imagination."

"You are always telling me I have none."

"Then I will teach you."

Sitting next to Athos, his legs stretched out on the blankets, Aramis leaned in close; indicating the window in front of them and waving his arm theatrically.

"The rooftop there on the right, with the red tiles, is the home of Madame Beauchene. She maintains it well, as she maintains herself," he winked.

"The one to the left with the small chimney; there resides the beautiful Madame Charbonneau. Those tiles are very slippery; you have to hook your fingers underneath to get a good grip," he whispered conspiratorially, demonstrating the action in intricate detail.

"Ah, and that one in the distance ..."

He chatted on happily; Athos side-glancing him occasionally and rolling his eyes when Aramis looked down at him.

The view of the blank wall would never be the same again.

oOo

 **A/N** : If you would like to be a fly on the wall once more, there will be more infirmary talk coming soon.


	2. Empty Handed

**2 - EMPTY-HANDED**

 **Unexpected confinement in the Infirmary and the company of friends. Not always a good thing?**

"It's called, "Quarantine."

"Ain't fair. They weren't THAT sick!"

"It is not for us to decide, Porthos."

"And it _was_ the whole family," Aramis threw in his observations. "They had all been sick for some time. Their neighbours were very restless."

"Well, we had to rescue them, Gentlemen. An epidemic would not be welcomed in the neighbourhood and the riot would have spread."

"And they still have their home," Aramis smiled at Athos; trying to be positive.

"Most of it," d'Artagnan muttered.

"So! What are we to do with ourselves, my friends?" Aramis said, hands on hips, looking at them expectantly.

"Got any food in 'ere?" Porthos pre-empted any suggestions, as he began to prowl around the room throwing drawers and cupboards open.

The room seemed a lot smaller as he barrelled around; a determined look on his face.

"Why yes, Porthos, the cupboards are full of foodstuffs. If it weren't for all the bandages and linament, I would have more room for it," Aramis said, shoving him aside and closing the drawers and cupboard doors.

"No doubt food will arrive at some point, Gentlemen. We have Lemay's orders - we stay here until he says otherwise; so we will have to make the best of it."

"We could train?" d'Artagnan said; his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

"I think not, but I appreciate your enthusiasm," Athos replied.

d'Artagnan had only been with them a few months and it could be taxing watching his bursts of youthful energy; often at inappropriate moments.

"Sparring in confined spaces is a lesson for the future," Athos added.

"I can spar in confined spaces!" d'Artagnan muttered, indignantly.

"Not when we're all confined with ya," Porthos growled; hunger making him bad-tempered.

He pulled out a deck of cards from an inside pocket and started shuffling them quietly; mumbling to himself. The others steered clear.

Just then, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor of their – _hopefully_ \- temporaryaccommodation in the Infirmary.

They all turned toward the door expectantly as it was thrown open.

The body that filled the doorway was known to them.

"Serge!" Aramis cried, good-naturedly.

The others looked hopefully at their cook; before taking in the blanket he was carrying. And his otherwise empty hands.

"Sorry, lads – Doctor's orders," Serge grunted, "I'm in quarantine too," he added; not looking particularly upset to be away from his kitchen duties.

"'ave you brought any food?" Porthos asked hopefully; quickly putting his cards away.

"'e wouldn't let me finish. Said I 'ad to come straight 'ere." The old man replied, happily.

"Why?" Athos asked, nonplussed.

"When you all came back, after rescuin' that sick family from that mob," Serge carefully explained, as if he were talking to four year olds, _he_ ..." he said, pointing at Porthos, "came straight to my kitchen on the scrounge."

"Ah," said Athos, turning to glare at Porthos. "Possible contamination by infection as yet unknown."

"Well, I was 'ungry!" Porthos replied, without a shred of remorse.

"You are always hungry."

Serge sat down on the edge of a vacant cot, dumping his blanket beside him. The others all sat opposite, looking at him.

"Do you think _someone'll_ bring food?" Porthos asked, ever hopeful; chewing the end of his thumb.

"Porthos, please," Aramis said; not wanting to listen to Porthos complain for the next God Know How Long.

"You got any assignations planned for tonight?" Porthos shot back at Aramis as he dropped down heavily on another vacant cot.

Aramis opened his mouth to reply and suddenly seemed to remember Something. Rather Important.

"Oh."

The rumble of laughter Porthos emitted filled the room as Aramis spun around and turned his back on him. He stalked across the room; now biting the end of his own thumb.

If anyone saw Athos smile, no-one mentioned it.

There was silence for a while; no-one quite knowing what to do with their enforced "free" time. The fact that Serge had turned up empty-handed was a great disappointment to them.

Meanwhile, Serge continued to make himself comfortable.

No-body spoke.

"This reminds me of a siege I was once at, in my soldierin' days," Serge suddenly piped up enthusiastically; obviously enjoying the fact that he had a captive audience.

Aramis dropped his head theatrically in his hands, not knowing which was worse - Porthos's complaints or Serge's war reminiscences.

Porthos collapsed back on a vacant bed with a groan and quickly started to snore.

"A siege?! What was it like?" d'Artagnan cried; before anyone could kick him in the shin.

"'orrible," the old man replied instantly, shaking his head.

"Confined spaces ain't good," Porthos muttered.

"I thought you were asleep," d'Artagnan said, side-glancing his large friend; still flat on his back on the cot.

"I thought 'e was goin' to talk about turnips," Porthos replied, lifting his head and squinting at Serge.

"Turnips?" Aramis said, confused.

"He is very knowledgeable about vegetables," their leader said quietly from the corner.

"Stop talking about turnips! I want war stories," d'Artagnan said; pulling his legs up beneath him and making himself comfortable.

The old man smiled.

"Got plenty of 'em."

Porthos sank back on his bed and closed his eyes.

Aramis looked at Athos and made a pained face.

Athos shrugged and pulled his hat low over his eyes before tipping his chair back.

Only Serge and d'Artagnan looked happy.

oOo

 **A/N:** Another Infirmary Talk coming soon. Thanks for reading!


	3. DON'T YOU DARE!

**3 - "DON'T YOU DARE!"**

 **Athos, Aramis, Porthos and Treville:**

 _ **This is an excerpt**_ _from my story,"An Unlikely Brotherhood." After the Musketeers have been ambushed and eight have died, the remainder fill the Infirmary and Aramis and Porthos try to cope._

oOo

It had been carnage.

Treville sat at his desk with a heavy heart and a weariness he had never felt before. He considered the coming hours. This was unprecedented. Six of his men were dead. Eight badly wounded and, of those eight, four who possibly may also die.

Some of his best men were gone.

Two royal surgeons had been sent to the Garrison; so at least his men were in good hands. A room had been set aside for surgery with an outer room for those waiting their turn with the surgeons, who would work in shifts throughout the night.

Those waiting their attention were laid in line, depending on the severity of their injuries.

Once passed from one room to the other, their injuries dealt with, they would then be placed in a larger room where eight beds had been set up; four along one wall, and four opposite, forming a ward.

A small room at the back of the Garrison was to be used as a mortuary for the six already dead and others who may follow, either during surgery or in recovery.

Extra staff had been brought in from the nearby vicinity for labour in the laundry and the kitchens.

The gravedigger had been alerted, as had the priest.

The men went into surgery in strict rotation.

Athos was fourth in line.

Aramis's job was to strip the waiting patients and wash them in readiness. All of those returning had arrived in a filthy state, their clothes caked in dust and blood. Discarded uniforms were thrown unceremoniously into the corner of the room to be removed by laundry staff, for repair or destruction.

He had carefully kept his eyes off Athos as he slowly neared the front of the queue.

When it was his turn, Aramis squared his shoulders and prepared his brother, and then asked on the spur of the moment if he could go in with him and help. Once inside, he was confronted by the surgeon in a bloodied apron, standing on an even bloodier floor.

The surgeon was already tired.

He looked up as Aramis approached.

"Go to the top of the table," he said quietly. "We are running low on sleeping draft and he may wake; take hold of his shoulders."

Aramis did as he was bid; stomach clenched against the sight and smell of the room.

The surgeon looked down at Athos and his eyes moved to the newly stitched wound in his neck.

"Who did this?" he asked quietly, his fingers deftly tracing the stitches.

"I did," Aramis replied, "It could not wait."

The surgeon bent closer, and Aramis held his breath.

"Nice work," he said, "Very neat." Looking up, the surgeon met his eyes and gave him a wan smile and Aramis breathed again.

"Let us see if I can replicate your delicacy," he added.

In the end Athos did not stir, as Aramis again watched the surgeon's deft fingers probing quickly for the musket ball buried deep in his flesh. He had to cut wider and go deeper that he had hoped but his touch was sure. When it was over, the surgeon finally took off the ruined apron and reached for a clean one.

"Thank you, you did well," the surgeon offered.

"That was brutal," Aramis whispered, his trembling hands resting on either side of Athos's head.

"Tell me that again in a month when he is walking beside you once more," the surgeon said, tying the clean apron around his waist as he waited for the next patient to be brought it.

Aramis met his eyes.

"Forgive me, I meant no offence," he whispered.

Where other surgeons may have left Athos mutilated or crippled; Aramis knew that this man had not.

oOo

As evenings went, this had to be one of the worst ones Porthos had endured.

And he had endured many.

He shook his head once more to fling the sweat out of his eyes, knowing he would have to repeat the action many times in the next few hours. Looking around the Infirmary, he knew that adrenaline and exhaustion had left him on the verge of panic as his eyes swept around the room, now full.

The ambush had come as the light was fading and they were making their way back to the Garrison. SixteenMusketeers, released from duty on the banks of the Seine where the King's carriage had earlier passed to both cheers and derision from his subjects.

Now, those that were injured were all around him, every bed taken. The room was dark, lit by candles and lanterns which hung from brackets on the walls at either end.

He could hear Treville barking orders in the outer room. His ears filled with the cries, screams and groans of his brothers in arms.

Six dead.

Eight wounded; four of those critically.

It had become a mantra.

That left two, relatively unscathed; Aramis and himself, plus their Captain, Treville; who had led them home by any means he had found. Aramis had ridden in the back of someone's cart with his hands clamped firmly on Athos's neck, slippery with the blood that would not cease; until his fingers cramped up and Porthos took over. He stitched the gash quickly as soon as he could before the surgeons came.

 _The best of the best_ , Treville had said as he had surveyed the chaos at their arrival back at the Garrison.

The rest of the Regiment were still out, hunting out the perpetrators. But it was close to midnight now and they had not returned. He hoped they were safely camped for the night and would return in the morning. However, he feared that the assassins had long since melted into the night.

oOo

In the dim light, Porthos searched for Aramis - last seen across the room, pinning Marchant to his bed as the man writhed in pain; threatening to tear the stitches across his chest.

Aramis was now nowhere to be seen but not far away, he knew.

Aramis's skills had been sorely needed this evening and Porthos knew he would not rest until everything he could do had been done; most of his time spent in the outer room, next to where the two surgeons laboured into the evening. Sent by the King, the surgeons had arrived along with medical supplies, sheets, bandages and extra lanterns.

Porthos himself had spent the past two hours moving around the Infirmary, going where he was needed; lifting, swabbing floors, gathering up linens, fetching, carrying, and praying. He was not a man who usually prayed.

All the time looking toward the far side of the room, watching the still figure, unconscious since leaving the surgeon's care two hours ago. There was nothing he could do, but that did not mean he was not acutely aware of the shallow rise and fall of his brother's chest.

In the distance, Notre Dame chimed the midnight hour.

Inside the Garrison, time had no meaning.

But now, he needed Aramis, because Athos was starting to move. Porthos moved quickly over to the bed in the corner, his heart sinking at the fevered sheen now obvious on his brother's face and chest.

He had two wounds, a musket ball to his hip and a rapier cut to his neck, now both heavily bandaged.

Porthos felt justified in scooping him up in his arms and pulling him into his chest to try and stop the thrashing that was beginning.

The room itself was quieter now; most of the patients unconscious or settled and Porthos looked wildly around, searching for Aramis, but to no avail.

He dare not call out, in fear of disturbing his fellow brothers and there was still activity in the next room, where the surgeons still toiled; so he held his tongue.

Then, as if with second sight, Aramis appeared in the doorway, the light at his back; wiping his bloodied hands on a cloth and looking right at him.

oOo

Athos is floating, and he is content to do so.

He opens his eyes and when he finally focuses, it is Porthos's face he sees, inches away from his own.

Their eyes lock; Porthos is quietly murmuring something and because he is repeating it, over and over again, Athos finally catches it.

" _I won't let you go ... I won't let you go ..._

 _You're my family ..._

 _You don't get to leave me!_

 _You don't get to leave me ..._

 _DON'T YOU DARE!_

 _I'm your anchor, Athos ..._

 _Don't you let go ... don't you let go ... don't you let go."_

Athos finds his voice and he thinks he says the right thing because Porthos gives that low laugh of his, followed by his wide smile.

" _I won't ... I swear."_

Athos can feel his strong arm across his shoulders, holding his upper body up, but his legs are heavy on the mattress and a wave of pain hits him and he can do nothing but arch backward. When Athos looks up again into his brother's face, Porthos's smile has gone, and he is frowning down at him and Athos is unsure what has caused that.

Porthos tightens his grip.

It does nothing to save him falling away, down a deep well of blackness, watching as Porthos's contorted face grows smaller and smaller, the further down he goes.

There is a roaring in his ears, and he thinks it may be Porthos.

oOo

Standing in the doorway, Aramis locked eyes with Porthos. He saw how Porthos had taken Athos into his arms, like a small child, his face close enough so Athos could hear what he was saying.

Elsewhere, someone screamed and Porthos finally felt justified in shouting himself; it would not be he who disturbed his injured brothers after all. He yelled across the room to Aramis to fetch laudanum. Porthos's arm was around Athos's shoulders and he was holding him in a half sitting position, but Aramis could see Athos's head was beginning to fall back.

Too late for laudanum.

Aramis dropped the cloth and crossed the room at a run.

Skidding to a halt at the side of the bed, he put one hand on Porthos's shoulder and the other on Athos's chest, and by that action, Porthos lowered his brother down onto the mattress.

Porthos's shirt was wet where he had been holding Athos and the heat now radiating from Athos's limp body was evidence that this new day had dawned with further trials in her heart.

But Athos breathed still, and Aramis rolled up his sleeves and went in search of cold water. Porthos shucked off Athos's shirt and used it to mop his chest and face; steeling himself for the coming hours.

Much later, Athos awoke in pain and seared with fever.

Listening, he could hear Aramis's voice somewhere, moving around the room and murmuring in Spanish to those around him.

Prayers.

He looked for Porthos and saw him on the floor to his right, against the wall; broad arms on the bed and his head resting on top of them. He was asleep, almost in a kneeling position. This had been a bad time, then.

He must have closed his eyes, because Porthos was gone and Aramis now sat on the bed beside him. With gentle hands, he turned his face toward him.

It seemed it was his turn for murmured prayers.

He felt his head raised and something put to his lips and because it was Aramis, he swallowed without complaint. A foul tasting medicine, but he lay back and waited for the pain to fade, before everything around him faded once more.

Later, Porthos brought two cold wet sheets from outside, where the kitchen staff was busy at the end of a queue, soaking sheets for all the men who had developed fevers, Athos included.

Aramis deftly removed the fever-soaked sheet from Athos and replaced it quickly with a clean wet one, which quickly remoulded itself to his form.

As his wounds were both on his left side, they had turned him to lay on his right; Porthos had wedged himself between the bed and the wall on that side to keep watch. After the afternoon was passed in this way, they both realised that more was needed if they were to break his fever.

Porthos stood up stiffly and rubbed his legs.

"Damn legs, can't feel 'em; the floor's so bloody cold!" he muttered.

They looked at each other.

"That's it!" said Aramis, "We should lay those with fever on the floor!"

"It needs cleanin' though," Porthos grumbled, looking warily at the flagstones that they had all been walking on.

"That will have to wait; we'll put a clean sheet down for them to lie on; we need the cold to come through the sheet," Aramis replied, animated now.

So together, they pushed the bed up against the wall and threw a clean sheet on the floor.

Fortunately, Louis had sent further supplies from his own stores and there was no shortage of linen.

Then, they moved Athos, heavily bandaged at hip and neck, down onto the floor with a pillow for his head, and then threw another wet sheet over him.

"This will either cure or kill 'im," muttered Porthos darkly.

They did the same with two other men who were suffering from high fevers and then Aramis sat down once more beside Athos on the floor, and Porthos lay himself on the bed so he could lean over the side and keep an eye on their friend. It would not do to allow him to twist and turn freely and incur further injury.

In the doorway, the surgeon watched.

His colleague had now returned to the Palace, and he himself was gathering his equipment, in preparation of taking his leave; all the men settled and their task completed.

Aramis looked up then and seeing him watching them, he waited for a challenge. But it did not come. The surgeon merely looked around the room sadly, and then back to Aramis. Fever had always been a possibility, given the filthy condition in which the men had returned to the Garrison.

With one slow nod of his head, he turned back into the room, disappearing from sight. Perhaps he knew that he could not stop these two tenacious men doing everything in their power to help their friends.

There had been no further deaths but fever was threatening to take those who had come this far; their care would now pass to local doctors.

oOo

" _Athos_ ... _Athos ._.." Hushed words that pull at the darkness.

There is a finger lightly stroking his palm.

Then, a whispered voice he recognises, deep and warm and urgent.

" _Come on, Athos; don't let the buggers win_."

The finger becomes a hand, holding firmly.

And in that moment, Athos knows where he is;

And he is anchored.

oOo

 **A/N:** "An Unlikely Brotherhood" is a Porthos-centric story, but if you'd like to know how Athos fares, the full story is posted on this site.

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks soon.


	4. The Fire

Many thanks for all your reviews and comments, always so appreciated. There are still quite a few Talks to come.

oOo

 **4\. THE FIRE**

 **Porthos and Friends:**

The call had gone up as soon as the smoke was seen, rising from the roofs on the other side of the Garrison wall. The buildings were tightly packed together, businesses and homes side by side. The streets and alleyways were narrow. Flames had yet to appear, but the wind was changeable and the smoke wafted left and right.

On a day such as this, a fire could leap from one building to another and a whole street could be lost before anything could be done. People had started to gather in the street, their cries clearly heard from inside the Infirmary.

"We should move him," Athos said quietly.

"It will kill him."

"If the fire spreads, Aramis ..."

"No!" Aramis replied firmly, not meeting Athos's eyes.

Athos turned around, finding d'Artagnan still standing in the doorway, having brought them the latest news of the fire, which was creeping ever closer.

"d'Artagnan, get something to move Porthos," Athos said.

Aramis stood angrily, facing Athos.

"Don't you care about Porthos?!"

Athos held his gaze, before looking down at Porthos, unconscious since the incident in the market three hours since. It had been a gamble to bring him back with his head injury as it was, and having succeeded, Aramis was adamant he would remain where he was until he woke.

The problem was he did not know when that would be.

Porthos always loved a gamble, Aramis thought bitterly.

"You cannot stay here," Athos persisted, his voice low.

He flicked his hand at d'Artagnan, who turned to leave, in search of a stretcher and men who could manhandle their man-mountain out of the infirmary to safety. However, d'Artagnan turned back as Aramis angrily spoke again.

"And where would you take him, Athos? Have you thought? For, I believe we are encircled by potential fire. No building is safe.

Athos's stony face gave nothing away.

When challenged in this way, Aramis knew Athos could go either way. He prepared himself to disobey the expected order to move.

d'Artagnan was still standing uncertainly in the doorway; mesmerised by the force of the argument taking place.

"Very well."

Aramis did not expect that.

oOo

"But the Garrison is safe, surely. The perimeter wall?" d'Artagnan asked, as Musketeers were sent to assist local residents in their efforts to evacuate their properties and save their animals.

Athos leant against the wall and looked up at the Infirmary ceiling.

"This roof is part-timbered. We have been meaning to replace it for some time," he replied.

"If a spark found its way up there ..." Aramis added.

"So it depends on which way the wind blows," d'Artagnan replied, looking at Athos.

"Keep watch and report back to us," Athos replied, and d'Artagnan turned quickly and left.

Athos started to strip blankets from the beds. He and Aramis then put them up against the shutters, ramming them into the slats.

The lack of light made the room gloomy, as befitted their mood.

"Do you have everything you need?" Athos asked then.

"There is nothing more I can do for him," Aramis replied softly.

oOo

Soon, d'Artagnan returned, breathless from his dash back from the street.

"It's spread to the blacksmith's" he reported, crossing to the table to pour water which he drank back in one gulp. He had obviously been helping, looking at the state of his hair and clothes.

"I've organised our horses' move to the training area at the back, as you asked, Athos,"

"Good," Athos nodded absently, "We can move them again, should the need arise."

The noise of people crowding outside the wall, all intent on dousing the fire, was growing.

"A house nearby was smoking," d'Artagnan added. "The one with the small chimney."

"That sounds like Madame Charbonneau's house," Aramis said regretfully, as d'Artagnan described the house in question where flames had been visible; trickling in the spaces between the tiles where his fingers once took hold.*

"Then we must try and save it," Athos said, rising, aware that Aramis was fond of the lady in question.

He left with d'Artagnan to muster the rest of the men and bark orders. The danger was too close, and the wind was beginning to send plumes of smoke toward the Garrison. Word had been sent to Treville at the Palace and he was expected back at any time.

Porthos was unmoved by the proceedings; still unconscious.

Alone now, Aramis took up Porthos's hand, rubbing his thumb across the still fingers.

"It really would be quite useful if you woke up now, my friend," Aramis murmured.

He looked up at the ceiling.

"Athos is right. We really should get out of here."

But as he looked at his friend's face, he knew he would not.

"Your chivalry this morning may be our undoing, mon ami," he whispered, conspiratorially, as he remembered the circumstances that had brought them to the Infirmary this morning.

A potential assault and a woman's scream was enough to make Porthos break away from their foot patrol in the market and head off in pursuit. He knew these alleys like the back of his very large hand, and he was gone before they realised.

The thug had accomplices though, waiting further along the rat run; ready to grab the woman as she fled and relieve her of her possessions and possibly her life.

Porthos had grabbed the man by his collar, only to run straight into his fellows. They had pushed the woman at him, she told them later – preventing him from drawing his sword as he caught her. He had been felled from behind by the first man.

Porthos's friends had found him crumpled unconscious on the ground, bleeding from a head wound, the woman holding his head out of the mud and pleading for help as they rounded the corner.

oOo

Athos watched Aramis from the doorway. He saw how he bent over Porthos; talking quietly. He had seen that compassion and had personally experienced it many times before.

There would be no moving Aramis.

And therefore, no moving Porthos.

"Shouldn't you be out there fighting the fire?" Aramis said, without looking up.

"The Red Guard has arrived. There are so many people out there it is impossible to move," Athos replied.

Aramis smiled for the first time that morning.

"They probably came thinking it was the Garrison on fire," he replied, looking across at Athos.

"Come to gloat," Athos replied; and they were back on track with each other.

"If you recall, one of their favourite taverns is in the immediate vicinity," Athos added.

"Ah."

Sometime later, water started dripping through the ceiling; forming puddles on the Infirmary floor.

"It's d'Artagnan. He is soaking the roof timbers," Athos said.

"He's ruining our ceiling," Aramis replied.

d'Artagnan came back then, to tell them the saddlery across the street was burning, and smoke was billowing from the roof of the bakery next door to it.

oOo

The flames were rising some ten feet in the air now.

"There is nothing more to be done. It depends on God and the wind," Athos said, striding back into the room.

"What? Aramis said. "Aren't God and the wind one and the same?"

Athos chose to answer the first question and ignore the second.

"The Garrison is in its direct path if the wind blows east."

He dropped his weapon belt on the table and pulled out a chair.

"What are you doing?"

"If we cannot risk moving Porthos, we won't. Neither will we leave you both; for I know that nothing I can say will move you from this room."

Aramis stared at Athos.

He looked past him and saw d'Artagnan standing quietly in the doorway.

"You too?"

d'Artagnan nodded and smiled. His face was covered in soot, which made his smile all the more bright.

Aramis had to look away quickly, so they could not see his eyes, for he held his love for his brothers there. He also held his fear.

"All for One, Aramis," Athos said, moving forward and gripping his shoulder.

d'Artagnan moved to the shutters and made sure they were fully covered, each space between the slats stuffed completely to keep the smoke out. He then crossed the room and quickly shut the door and placed a rolled up blanket at its base.

They could all smell the acrid smoke now.

Athos pulled a bottle of wine from the cupboard and poured them all a cup before placing his chair quietly next to the cot.

"How is he?"

"There is nothing more I can do for him." Aramis replied quietly. "We must wait and hope."

Outside, they could hear roof tiles across the street cracking.

"You don't have to stay," Aramis said, looking at them both.

"It is not open for discussion."

"Athos ..."

"No, Aramis; you asked if I cared about Porthos. How could I not?"

Aramis sighed.

"It's a strange way to die."

"No-one is going to die," Athos replied firmly.

"You have faith for someone who does not speak with God, mon ami,"

"There is more than one form of faith," Athos said, taking Porthos's other hand in his own.

oOo

In the gloom, they all sat together.

They had done all they could. All the business and home owners had been evacuated and the street was now cordoned off, guarded by Musketeers at one end and Red Guard at the other; both glowering at each other.

Water was being passed along in buckets from anywhere it could be found, and tossed up onto the low roofs. As it hit hot tiles, it hissed and threw steam into the air. Some brave men moved across the tiles, above ground, to dampen down those areas not affected, and tackle those where flames threatened, but the wind was their enemy and they were all exhausted.

The Garrison had been protected as much as was possible; the Musketeers who remained having done their duty. They had their orders to evacuate should the fire take hold irrevocably.

Their own duty now was to their brother, Porthos.

Suddenly Aramis rose, agitated; running his fingers through his hair.

"Was I wrong?!" he said, looking wildly at them.

d'Artagnan flinched as a crash came from outside; a roof having succumbed to the fire's onslaught.

"No, you were right," Athos said calmly. "We could not move him."

Aramis paced the room, watched by his two brothers, before reaching for his crucifix and clasping it tightly.

"Have I condemned us all?" he whispered, in turmoil.

Athos swiftly stood then and approached him, putting both hands on his shoulders to still him.

"d'Artagnan and I made our own decision, Aramis," he replied. "And we do not know how this will play out."

"But, if you are in His good graces - now might be the time?" d'Artagnan said, smiling; nodding at Aramis's crucifix.

Aramis looked down at his hands; knuckles white from holding his most treasured possession so tightly.

"I have at least one more prayer in me," he smiled, moving back toward Porthos.

No-one spoke as he bent his head and said his piece.

"It's gone quiet," d'Artagnan suddenly said, as Aramis finished.

They all listened, looking toward the covered window, as if it would give them answers.

Before they could move, a cheer went up outside and they all looked at each other.

d'Artagnan crossed to the door and pulled the rolled-up blanket away.

Before he could open it though, it was forcibly thrown open and he had to step back to avoid injury.

There, standing in the doorway, was Captain Treville.

The three who could, rose quickly to their feet.

"The wind has died and the fire is almost under control." Treville said gruffly. "Well done on saving the Garrison, although I don't approve of your suicide pact."

The tumble of words caught them off-guard, before they noticed that Treville was smiling.

"I doubt it would have come to that, Sir," Athos replied. "And the Red Guard has, at least, been kept out of mischief."

Treville huffed, and pulled up a chair.

"How is he?"

"Yet to wake, Captain," Aramis replied.

"Do you need a physician?"

"One has been sent for. No doubt the fire held him up."

"The wind just died?" Aramis asked then, confused.

"Everyone had given up," Treville answered. "The wind was turning east, and then it just ... dropped away."

"Lucky," Athos said.

"A God-send," Aramis replied.

d'Artagnan was grinning widely.

"Well, keep me informed," Treville said, rising. "I have to return to the Palace. The King expects a full report and Richelieu will take credit if he gets a chance."

"Credit for starting the fire or ending it?" Aramis asked.

"I didn't hear that Aramis," their Captain said as he strode out of the room, closing the door behind him.

oOo

Later:

"It seems Madame Charbonneau's house is saved, but the one next door was not so fortunate," d'Artagnan reported.

"Did the tavern survive?" Athos ventured.

"It did."

"And the saddlery?"

"Alas, no."

"Unfortunate. We had quite a large order with him," Athos said sadly.

"Nor, the bakery."

"That is a shame. Porthos had a large order with _him."_

He moved to the window and released the blankets from the shutters; opening them to let in some light.

Aramis and d'Artagnan joined him to look out of the window at their guard on the wall. Seeing them, he gave them a wave.

All was under control, it seemed.

The danger was passed.

d'Artagnan moved around the room, taking down the rest of the blankets and throwing the shutters open, though the smell of the smoke lingered heavily in the air.

Hearing a grunt and a curse behind them as sunlight now filtered into the room, they all turned around, and were met by the sight of Porthos attempting to sit up.

They rushed over to stop him, settling him back down.

Sniffing the air, Porthos turned up his nose.

"I 'ope that's not my breakfast burnin'" he growled.

"No, it isn't, my dear Porthos," Aramis replied. "But we may have to find you a new baker."

oOo

 **A/N:** Madame Charbonneau's roof was the subject of a chat Aramis had with Athos at the end of "The Spaniard," the first of the Infirmary Talks.

Thanks for reading! Another Infirmary Talk coming soon.


	5. Madame's Roof Tiles

**5\. Madame Charbonneau's roof tiles.**

 **Aramis and Athos:**

Aramis was nowhere to be found and Athos was not impressed.

No-one had seen him all morning and duty was calling. After a thorough search, Athos finally found him ensconsed in the Infirmary. He was perched on a stool trying to examine a deep cut to the top of his scalp in a small mirror; a bloody cloth lay on the table in front of him.

"How did this happen?" Athos enquired, frowning.

He strode over and stood behind Aramis, so that he could watch his friend's face in the mirror as the tale unfolded.

Aramis glanced at Athos's stern reflection, obviously debating what to say; before deciding that the truth was probably the best policy. It would only come out anyway, he thought. Athos disliked deception; although he was not adverse to it _himself_ , if called for.

Aramis therefore set aside the convoluted elaboration he had concocted on his way back to the Garrison, should he be asked.

He took a deep breath; before catching Athos's eye and almost at once veering in a completely different direction.

Well, surely a _little_ elaboration would not go amiss.

"Sustained in the line of duty," he muttered, trying to square his shoulders whilst squinting into the mirror.

"And what particular duty would that be?" Athos enquired patiently, waiting for the subterfuge to issue forth.

"A duty we all hold most dear; assisting one of the residents of our fair city," Aramis replied, warming to his tale.

"And what _resident_ in particular?"

"No-one you would know."

"Try me."

Aramis sighed, regretting his decision to follow this more dubious path.

"I was assisting Madame Charbonneau to clear up after the fire," Aramis mumbled, "and a roof tile fell on my head." *

Aramis risked another look in the mirror and sure enough, the eyebrow was raised.

"One of the tiles you are so fond of?" came the quiet retort.

"Not so much now."

Athos reached forward. He was not known for his delicacy when examining wounds and his fingers probed his friend's head without mercy.

Aramis attempted to get away from him but decided against actual physicality, in his current condition.

"Let me see," Athos chided, sternly.

"Can you not do it from across the room?"

Athos continued to probe, shifting hair this way and that; and then he sucked in his breath.

"What?" Aramis cried, still trying to see the damage in the mirror.

Athos looked down at his reflection in the mirror and frowned. He was looking decidedly worried.

"What!" Aramis cried again, becoming alarmed.

"One moment," Athos said, as he probed further; eliciting a hiss from his patient.

Aramis then felt two hands placed comradely on his shoulders.

"Your hair will need to be shaved so that the wound can be stitched," Athos replied, holding his friend's enquiring gaze in the mirror.

He watched impassively as the familiar brown eyes widened.

Aramis was horrified.

"That will be make me the laughing stock of the Garrison!" he exclaimed; obviously mortified.

"Wear your hat."

"I cannot wear my hat all the time! You're the strategist - think of something!"

"A solution escapes me and you are bleeding all over the floor."

"You said that too quickly. You didn't even try to think of a solution!"

"There is only one."

"I refuse to shave my head!"

"Monks shave their heads."

"At the back! I could almost bear that! But not on the top! And certainly not if it is _you_ doing the shaving!"

"I was thinking, Serge."

" _SERGE?!"_

"He is deft, is he not, with vegetables and the like?"

"He has the hands of a blacksmith!" Aramis almost shouted.

"And yet, you continue to bleed on the floor."

"My apologies, I am sure!"

Athos sighed.

"This is getting us nowhere, Aramis. Is this likely to heal on its own?" Athos asked, waving his hand vaguely over Aramis's head and now sounding terribly bored by the whole thing.

Aramis tried to examine it once more, thinking also of the amount of hair he may lose around the cut to facilitate the needle. However, he could not quite see it in the mirror.

"Of course not," he muttered. "It will need stitching," he conceded.

"Do you have a headache?"

"Only since you arrived."

"I will fetch the razor."

Aramis sat down heavily on a nearby bed, defeated.

"And your hat," Athos added over his shoulder as he strode through the door.

He did not tell Aramis that his hair did not need cutting in the least; the position of the wound being within a natural parting, once the hair was swept aside.

He closed the door and strode purposefully down the corridor, a small smile playing on his lips and a slight spring in his step.

Aramis had often told them that head wounds bled copiously.

It was Athos's considered opinion that Aramis would live.

However, Athos was never slow in seizing an opportunity;

It would do Aramis no harm to temper his vanity; nor to realise how gullible he could sometimes be.

Athos returned with the razor, which was now entirely for show; unbeknown to the unsuspecting miserable man currently sitting with his head propped up by one hand; a fresh cloth pressed to the offending wound with the other.

He laid the razor with some gravitas on the scrubbed infirmary table, where all such instruments of torture were laid out in their hour of need.

"But my hair is my best feature!" Aramis insisted - rather desperately, Athos thought - as Aramis stared at the implement now laid out in its full glory.

Athos dipped his chin and gave him The Stare.

Aramis glared back. "One of them," he added defiantly.

Athos continued to stare.

"Your modesty does you credit," he finally uttered. "Have you quite finished?"

"What's your hurry?" Aramis grumbled.

"We are on guard duty at the Palace at noon."

Aramis did a quick calculation.

"Inside or out?" he asked, nervously.

"Outside."

Aramis breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good, I can wear my hat."

Vanity it seemed, was a trait that was just too strong for Aramis to overcome, Athos sighed to himself.

Regretfully he knew that, in Aramis's case, so was revenge.

He would have to keep his wits about him in the days to come.

However, it had been worth it. He would tell Aramis the truth of it soon.

He picked up a clean cloth and filled a bowl with water and slowly ambled across.

After all, he was in no hurry; they had until noon.

oOo

A/N: Madame Charbonneau's roof was the subject of a chat Aramis had with Athos at the end of "The Spaniard," the first of the Infirmary Talks; and "The Fire."

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks soon.


	6. One Day's Delay

**6\. ONE DAY'S DELAY**

One day late; too early to send out a search party. Help comes from an unlikely quarter.

 **Athos and Aramis:**

"Where are they?!" Porthos muttered as he looked around the courtyard.

He and d'Artagnan had been on their own two-man mission. Returning at noon, they had handed over their horses to Jacques, who didn't meet their eyes; scurrying off before he could be engaged in conversation. d'Artagnan had thought it was merely shyness, or a desire to please, but looking over his shoulder he saw Treville standing on his balcony, hands braced on the balustrade as he always did. But in contrast to Jacques, Treville held his gaze.

d'Artagnan nudged Porthos and nodded toward their Captain and as soon as Porthos saw Treville's face he was barrelling up the stairs, d'Artagnan a few paces behind.

At the top of the stairs, both Musketeers stopped and faced Treville at a distance of some yards, but there was no mistaking the look on his face. Or the hollow look in his eyes. Treville was often difficult to read, but not this time.

Not this time.

oOo

"They were due back this time yesterday," d'Artagnan said, looking from Treville to Porthos.

Porthos turned back toward the stairs.

"Porthos, where do you think you're going?" Treville said wearily. He had not slept much last night. It had been a precarious mission and he had thought carefully about who he would send.

"Where do you think?!" Porthos snapped.

"I don't know where they are – now," Treville replied. "I gave them three routes back, in case they were followed."

"So any one of three routes back," d'Artagnan summarised.

"Three routes back from where, exactly?" Porthos growled.

oOo

Aramis was aware of the clash of steel and had a brief thought that he was in the middle of a maelstrom. He was on the ground, with no remembrance of dismounting nor landing violently, though he had obviously done both.

Lying on his side, through a dark red haze he saw boots that came too close; throwing dust in his face. He attempted to pull himself up; reaching to wipe his eye and clear his vision. He had no co-ordination; his limbs would not do his bidding and his hand came away bloody. Through impaired vision he stared, trying to make sense of his predicament.

A furious fight was clashing around him, although it seemed to be playing out in slow motion. He clung to the sight of his brother, who was twisting and reaching and turning and yelling. He knew there was a name for each intricate move Athos was so expertly executing, despite being so outnumbered, but he could not think of them at the moment. It was all he could do to stay conscious. That was all the support he could give. He hoped Athos would understand.

Then, it was over and silence descended.

Aramis was suddenly aware of his own harsh breathing, filling the clearing. He managed to lift his head and became aware of his bloodied hand once more as he made a futile attempt to push himself up.

At the movement, Athos turned toward him, and smiled, glad to see him alive. Aramis watched as he raised his arm to resheath is sword whilst holding his gaze; no doubt assessing his injuries. Aramis could not shout, could not warn him of the man at his feet who had grasped his sword. His eyes widened in horror as the man surged up and pierced Athos under his arm, the blade going deep. Athos whirled automatically, his sword still tight in his hand and the man fell in a heap; head almost cleaved from his shoulders.

Aramis could only watch through tear-filled eyes as Athos sank with a sigh to his knees. Still too far apart, they shared an agonised look.

Across the clearing, Athos held his gaze as Aramis closed his eyes and sank into oblivion.

oOo

"It shouldn't take this long to get back," d'Artagnan said what everyone was thinking.

"It's only one day's delay," Treville said. "It's too soon to panic," he added, despite the fear beginning to coil in his stomach.

"I ain't panicking. But I ain't hanging around here much longer."

Treville was as anxious as his men and two hours later, he had organised three rescue parties to cover the three possible routes back. Porthos and d'Artagnan formed one of them.

Before they could set off, there was a cry sent up from one of the guards that a lone horse was approaching.

Very slowly.

oOo

"It's Athos's horse," d'Artagnan said quietly as they all gathered outside the archway, watching Roger's steady, measured approach.

People had lined up to watch the slow procession and now started to gather and walk with him, knowing that this was something special.

d'Artagnan took a step forward, but Porthos held his arm firmly.

"Leave 'im. A few more minutes won't hurt."

Sure enough the horse detected d'Artagnan's intention and threw his great head back; his eyes wild. He was not about to relinquish his cargo just yet. He had not yet reached his destination. Despite d'Artagnan's experience with horses, he did take a step back; unwilling to challenge the beast. Unwilling to unsettle the riders.

For the horse bore two riders.

oOo

Earlier:

The rope that bound them together did its work. It had cost Athos much in energy and pain as he struggled to get a confused Aramis up into the saddle, before climbing up himself. Pulling his brother's arms around him, he held the rope in both his hands and threw it back over his shoulders, capturing them both, but opening his wound further in the event. Tying the rope across his stomach, anchoring them both together, he placed Aramis's hands on the rope and folded his fingers around it.

"Hold on tight, Aramis," he whispered. "We are going home."

On the word, "home," he dug his knees into Roger's flanks and said no more. The horse turned about and seemed to take stock, before moving gracefully forward at a slow but steady walking pace; one he would keep up all the way back to the city.

They walked that way through the evening and continued into the night. They would be one day late in returning, but not late enough for Treville to send out a search party. Feeling Aramis's weight at his back, there was no time to lose. He had a grave wound of his own and had to keep his wits about him if they were to get back.

With his wound padded with linen torn from his shirt and his arm clamped to his side, Athos dare not let go of the reins; held tightly in his right hand.

Roger walked on.

Athos kept an eye on the constellations, but he soon realised he had no need to; the horse knew the way.

Aramis's hands had long since fallen away and the weight of his forehead pressing between his shoulder blades was the only indication now of his presence.

His own head was too heavy now to lift, allowing him only a view of the earth that passed beneath them. They were entirely at the mercy of the stallion which continued to make its steady way forward.

Dawn finally came, and the sun warmed him a little after a cool night.

He gradually became aware of familiar noises around him as they made their way through the city gates; the horse still needing no direction, save for the knowledge of the continued presence of its two riders.

The cobbles became familiar as they passed over them and the occasional face of a child came into his limited view; pulled swiftly back by an anxious parent.

Soon trader's tables slipped by, seen through one eye, as he rested his forehead on the neck of the great horse; half his face buried in its mane.

And then, the noise stilled and all he could hear was the steady clip of the horse's hooves as the people seemed to stop. He was passing lines of them; they were all looking up at him – as he looked down on them.

Some reached out to gently to touch the horse, occasionally his booted foot; but no-one stopped his progress; watching respectfully as two Musketeers passed by, making their way home.

oOo

Awaiting them outside the Garrison archway, the Musketeers all watched the great horse slowly making its way along the perimeter wall, flanked by a line of people on each side.

"Musketeers incoming!" the guard shouted, and Treville was down his stairs and barking orders.

Everyone seemed transfixed by the sight before them as the horse turned and passed under the archway, coming to a halt in the centre of the courtyard.

It scraped its front right hoof twice over the ground, before stilling completely.

Porthos reached out and took the reins from Athos's gloved hand. His other hand reached up to swipe the mop of unruly hair from the still, pale face hanging low on the horse's neck. Without taking his eyes from Athos's face, he spoke.

"d'Artagnan, cut the rope."

While d'Artagnan pulled out his knife, Treville had men go to each side of the horse ready to pull the riders off, on his order.

Porthos was startled then as Athos spoke to him, but did not open his eyes.

" _Next to the tree ..."_

Then he started to slide and Porthos caught him and they both went slowly down to the ground.

Aramis was lifted down next and the extent of their injuries became apparent.

Treville crouched down to check both his unconscious men, before lifting his eyes to Porthos and shouting out an order to the men behind him.

"Infirmary, now!"

oOo

Later, d'Artagnan asked what Athos meant by the words he had uttered: " _Next to the tree_."

"It's a spot in the cemetery that Aramis covets," Porthos replied quietly, not meeting his eyes.

oOo

Athos chose to wake three hours after midnight.

Porthos was sitting on a chair between his bed and the next. He had just closed his eyes and had jerked upright as he felt himself falling asleep. Stretching, he looked around the room and then at Athos; and met green eyes looking back at him.

Porthos leant forward.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry ..." Athos said, reaching out his hand and grabbing Porthos's shirt.

Porthos frowned, looking down at the hand that was twisting his shirt. He put his hand over the agitated fingers and squeezed.

"What are you sorry about, Athos?"

"Aramis," he replied plaintively. "I tried, Porthos. They threw a rock and he was thrown to the ground. I fought them off and then I got him onto my horse."

His words were tumbling out, aided by the heat that was radiating off him.

"Yeah, we all saw that," Porthos replied, patting his hand.

Before Porthos could still him, he began again.

"He died at my back."

The hitch in his words broke Porthos's heart, and completely took the air from his lungs. Recovering, he reached forward, pulling Athos's face toward him.

"No, no, Athos. He's not dead! Aramis is alive! Look ..."

Porthos turned and then looked over his shoulder, the chair scraping across the stone flagstones.

"He's over there, brother," Porthos said.

Athos looked past him at the cot on the far wall, where Aramis lay on his back. Unmoving; his head bandaged.

Athos tried to sit up, staring across the room. Porthos put his hand on his chest to stop him.

"Stay still, you almost died yerself," he said. "And 'e wouldn't like that; not after all the trouble you took to get yerselves home."

"He's alive?"

"Yeah, so we won't be needing that space next to the tree for a long while yet."

Porthos raised his eyebrows as he watched the emotions pass over Athos's face. It was an unaccustomed sight, as were the tears that filled his eyes.

"I thought he was dead."

Porthos squeezed his hand.

"Just a dead weight at your back, is all. You gonna let go of me now?"

Athos looked back at Porthos and followed his gaze down, to see his hand twisted in his shirt.

"It's me best shirt."

Athos let out a half-laugh, half-sob and released his hand, smoothing the linen down in two strokes before his hand fell to the mattress and his eyes slipped shut.

Porthos wiped his thumb across his brother's too-warm cheek, drying the moisture that lay in the corner of his eye.

He hoped that now Athos knew his brother lived, his healing would follow.

oOo

Some hours later, Aramis woke to the sight of Treville and d'Artagnan in shirt-sleeves trying to subdue a fevered patient across the room. Porthos had his back to him, sitting slumped on a chair, watching.

"Porthos?" he said, and the man turned and hurried over.

"Sshhh, lay still," Porthos said, "You've got a head injury."

"Athos ...I'm sorry," Aramis let out a sob; staring at Porthos in anguish and reaching for his hand.

"Sshhh," Porthos murmured again, "What about?" he asked gently.

"I couldn't save him. I couldn't move. I watched him ... die."

Porthos leant forward and squeezed his hand.

"No, Aramis ... he ain't dead, brother."

"I saw him fall!" Aramis said, confused.

"He didn't die. He brought you back."

"What? How?"

"I've got no idea 'ow he did it, but he got you both back. Him and Roger."

"Where is he?" Aramis said, trying to sit.

Porthos realised then that Aramis couldn't see the patient they had been struggling with.

"That's 'im over there, lost in a fever," Porthos said gently.

"What?!" Aramis cried, looking across at Treville and d'Artagnan, working to keep the man still.

Aramis watched their efforts and saw how they struggled to keep him still but were giving him nothing to combat it.

"Cold compresses!" Aramis said, grabbing at Porthos's arm. "Where limb meets body," he said shaking his sleeve. "Herbs ... in the chest," he added, pointing at the large box by the window.

He fell back against the pillow then exhausted, but Porthos was moving quickly to carry out the first of his instructions. Aramis watched as cold wet cloths were put on either side of Athos's neck, under each arm and at his groin.

"And ankles," he called out from across the room. "That helps too."

Next, the herbs were pummelled and steeped as per his instructions.

"What injuries?" Aramis managed to ask next, after they had managed to give Athos some the herb infusion.

"Sword wound under his arm. Lemay has stitched it. It looks clean."

"When?"

"Two days ago."

"What?!"

"Two days ago, Athos came back with the two of you tied together on Roger."

"Two days?"

The memory stirred then; watching Athos sink to his knees and then snatches of being pulled onto the horse. At what cost to Athos with his injury? Then, his head pressed into Athos's back as they made their way back, through the twilight and then the dark night, until he could hold his head up no longer, and he remembered no more, until waking to this nightmare.

He watched as they had made Athos as comfortable as they could; all of them exhausted.

Porthos returned to his side.

"We've done all we can," Aramis said. "We must wait now."

Porthos gave him water. Aramis had refused help until they had followed his instructions to completion. Now, he succumbed to the headache and exhaustion that was overpowering him.

"You sleep now. We've got you both," Porthos said, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"You rest too," Aramis said, watching him, before his eyes fell shut and he fell into a deep sleep.

oOo

He woke later and lay listening to Athos, as Treville, d'Artagnan and Porthos continued to apply cold compresses. It was less frenetic than earlier though but Porthos still had to prevent him leaving his bed and taking charge.

In the the early hours, it suddenly went quiet and they held their breath, until Treville announced the crisis had passed. The three men took advantage of the empty beds and only woke when Serge brought food.

The next few days were exhausting for Porthos.

When Athos was awake, he asked about the sleeping Aramis.

When Aramis woke, he asked about the sleeping Athos.

It would have been useful to have them awake at the same time, but Porthos was just glad to have them both back and set d'Artagnan on watch between the two of them, so that he could get some food and help Treville in the running of the Garrison.

oOo

Finally, when they were alone in the large room and both awake, Aramis called Athos's name.

Athos rolled his head to the right.

"Right here," he called back.

They talked briefly about their struggle in the clearing.

"I thought you were dead," Aramis said.

After a moment, Athos answered.

"I thought you were."

"You brought me back," Aramis smiled.

"Porthos tells me you did the same for me," Athos replied.

They smiled at each other. There was nothing more to say.

Watching unseen in the doorway, Porthos and d'Artagnan smiled too.

oOo

Later, as Aramis slept and d'Artagnan sat quietly with Athos:

"He didn't remember the journey back?" Athos asked him.

"No, just you sinking to your knees and saying good-bye with your eyes."

"He said that?"

d'Artagnan nodded. "You'll have to teach me this silent language you all use."

Athos looked at d'Artagnan, who was staring at him; a range of emotions passing over his face.

"I think you have it already," he murmured.

oOo

And if they both then ran d'Artagnan ragged over the next few days, he didn't seem to mind.

"You do realise, they're playin' you," Porthos said, watching him fetch for one and then carry for the other.

"They don't know I know, but, yes I do," the young man replied with a smirk. "They'll be here for a few days yet - I'm planning my retribution. You in?"

"You bet," Porthos chuckled; clapping him on the back.

"We'll make a well-rounded Musketeer of you before you know it," he smiled.

As he walked back across the room, he looked from Aramis to Athos and threw his head back and laughed.

They both looked at each other before eyeing him suspiciously.

"You gents 'ungry?" Porthos asked, innocently; winking at d'Artagnan.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks coming soon.


	7. This Man

**7\. THIS MAN**

 **Treville and Athos:**

This is an expansion on a scene from "A Marriage of Convenience," in Series 2. We all saw that terrible scene where Treville was shot and only Lemay's expertise saved him ...

oOo

Athos had stood rigid at the end of the table as Treville roared in pain.

Aramis was calm, doing what he could as Lemay and Constance arrived.

"I have some practice with musket wounds," Aramis had offered, when they discovered there was no exit wound.

"I bow to your experience," Lemay had replied.

Still Athos stood, waiting for orders.

He could not tear his eyes away, the only support he could give to Treville as he continued to writhe and gasp.

Porthos was beside him, equally rooted to the spot but free, Athos suspected, of the emotions currently warring within him.

"Hold him!"

An order given and he could now move. He could do what was required of him.

He and Porthos moved in sync.

Porthos was deeply concerned; finding it difficult to watch. But he was not riven with guilt.

For that is what he felt when he recalled those final words Treville had spoken to him in the yard, before the Captain had headed off to the Rue Jacob to collect the King's present for the Princess;

"The Regiment will need a new Captain soon. I could recommend you."

Athos had not replied. He could not contemplate it; for Treville had been stripped of that honour. He had seen his whole life slip away from him on the whim of a king whose petulance at being denied his wish for a new First Minister had sought the cruellest form of revenge; to take away that which was held so dear.

Treville had been saddened. His other emotions - for Athos knew there were many - held tightly within him. He had been worn down by his monarch.

Sadness was what remained.

Then, the last words Treville had spoken to him;

" _I'm finished here. It's time you all accepted it."_

And now this. Gunned down in the street by an unknown assailant.

In the end, Lemay had brought his skill to bear.

Once the bullet was removed by Aramis, all was not right. Treville began to gasp for air as his lungs seemed to refuse to work.

This was beyond Aramis's skill, freely admitted, and Lemay took charge.

"I need him on his back!"

And so they turned him and held his legs.

Always one for acquiring new knowledge, Lemay had produced a tube and had drained the fluid that had accumulated in his lung. Treville had at last pulled in air.

Only then, could Athos move his feet and lead Porthos in search of the would-be assassin.

They had found evidence that Princess Louise was not who she purported to be, if evidence of her portrait - the gift Treville was to collect - was anything to go by.

Francesco and the woman-imposter were now dead, and the Council Members were safe.

The rest could wait.

oOo

Now, Athos sat in the corner of the room in the infirmary watching Treville breathe.

"Athos, get some rest."

"I am fine."

"He wouldn't want you to exhaust yourself.

"Once he wakes."

"After he wakes, we will move him to his own bed and you can then clutter up his office, my friend."

The attempt at humour failed.

Athos was closed down.

Impenetrable.

"You've been here all night," Aramis persisted.

Silence.

Aramis did not want to consider having two patients to care for.

oOo

Athos could not order his thoughts.

Treville was a constant. Treville was his driving force.

Treville was a hardened soldier. When he raised his voice, he was a force to be reckoned with.

Athos knew subservience only under _this_ man, and his king.

No-one else.

 _This_ man; who had once held his future in his hands when he himself could see no future.

This man; who could have rubbed those hands together and condemned him to dust; flinging that dust away on a wind of ambivalence.

This man; who had honour and lived and breathed duty. Who loved France and who loved his men.

This man; who they strove to emulate and to please.

This man; who now unknowingly held his future in his hands once more; lying twixt this world and the next.

It was a metaphorical toss of a coin now that would decide Treville's fate. The same turn of events that would decide his own.

Perhaps, at some point in the future, Athos could accept Treville's death.

But not now.

Not now.

Athos could not order his thoughts.

And so, he withdrew.

He became a fortress that only Treville's survival could breech.

oOo

"Want me to slug 'im?" Porthos had offered during the second day.

"No!" cried Aramis, as they both stood on the balcony watching their friend through the window.

He looked at Porthos and smiled sadly.

"Not yet."

oOo

Athos sat looking at the floor now; the sight of his Captain, immobile and as white as the sheets that covered him, unnerved him.

The stone flagstones at his feet were becoming familiar to him. Each crack studied intensely.

"If you have stopped willing him to wake with your stare, you might like to turn your eyes to that," Aramis said, passing him a book he had retrieved from Athos's room.

Athos recognised it, running his fingers over the cover. He had owned it for several months but had not yet started to read it.

"Better than a slug, I guess," Porthos had grunted, when Aramis had proposed the distraction.

oOo

The book became a lifeline.

He appeared to lose himself in the pages, afraid to look at the man in the bed and unable to engage with his friends.

He raised his head only when Aramis stood in front of him, demanding answers to his enquiries, expecting and receiving only monosyllabic answers; mostly in the negative.

Athos would leave the room occasionally, striding unspeaking out through the door.

The first time, Aramis found him in Treville's office, working through the papers and documents requiring attention. Orders were issued and once the Garrison was running smoothly, he would return and take his place wordlessly next to their Captain's bed.

The second time, Porthos found him in the stable, brushing Roger with a vigour that may not have been entirely appreciated by the horse.

Later, a bowl of stew found itself thrust into his hands. He grunted his thanks, but then sat looking at it until it congealed and became inedible.

A glass of wine fared better.

Aramis made him help, changing sheets and bandages. At first Athos had baulked at the idea of such care, but an unspoken conversation between them ensured his co-operation and he then continued, when required, unbidden.

All the time, he returned to the pages of the book.

Occasionally his eyes flicked to ensure his Captain still lived.

oOo

When night fell, he closed the shutters and lit candles.

When dawn broke, he opened the shutters and cleared the guttered candles away.

The touch of a well-meaning hand on his shoulder made him flinch.

Food was not welcomed, nor conversation.

Company was tolerated, as others sought to also keep a vigil.

His face was only visible when he stood and left the room; otherwise it was turned to the pages of his book.

Gradually, they let him be.

oOo

The Third Evening:

All was quiet; the only sound was the steady turn of pages.

"Is it a good book?" a familiar voice whispered.

Startled, Athos looked up, and was met with a weary steel blue gaze.

"I cannot say, Captain," Athos replied quietly, closing the book and putting it aside;

"I have only read the first sentence."

oOo

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks soon.


	8. Heart over Head

**8\. HEART OVER HEAD**

 **Aramis, Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan:**

"What was he thinking?!"

"Don't think 'e does that."

"He must do it sometimes, mon ami."

"Probably when no-one's lookin'"

"I am here, you know!"

"Yes, as luck would have it, you are, my young friend."

"More by good luck than management, I believe."

"It wasn't my fault."

"No-one said it was. We are merely discussing the outcome."

"And the consequences."

"Consequences?"

"There's always consequences. Ain't no way round it."

"Incapacity tends to have an accumulating effect in a variety of circumstances such as these."

"Incapacity?!"

"Hmmm."

"But I'm not incapacitated!"

"Not yet, no."

"What?!

"Very often, I find, mon ami, that the cure is worse than the actual affliction."

"I've got an affliction?"

"You are young, you will recover. Given time."

" _There's nothing wrong with me_!"

"It is not for you to decide. Higher powers are now at work here."

"Higher powers?"

"You have passed into the realm of uncertainty."

"Look, there's _really_ nothing wrong with me!"

"Then why are we here, discussing your affliction and subsequent incapacity?"

"Because _HE_ dragged me in here!"

"'Course I did. First port o' call in such circumstances. Don't blame me if it falls off."

"It may still, my friend. Remember ...?"

"Oh, yeah... nasty."

"Can we hurry this along, gentlemen? We have work to do."

"Only if 'e promises not to do it again."

"It is a clear case of heart over head. If he can master that, he may have a chance."

"You're all mad!"

"There is still the matter of the consequences."

"We must pray for a miracle, brothers."

"Pfft."

"It was you who brought up Higher Powers!"

"Oh, who has the time."

"Still can't go til 'e promises."

"That would certainly put an end to the matter."

"Otherwise, it could go on indefinitely."

"Indeed."

"And I, for one, have an appointment this evening."

"What am I promising again?"

"Yer promisin' not to do it again, lad."

"I _promise_ on my honour, I will not do it again!"

"Atta boy."

oOo

"Think he'll do it again?"

"Probably."

oOo

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Next story: The Hostages.


	9. Hostages

**9\. HOSTAGES**

 **Athos and Porthos:**

It was strange, looking down and seeing a knife buried in your chest.

It was surprisingly painless, Athos thought.

When he lifted his eyes, the man was still in front of him; staring.

He looked horrified.

And then, he was gone; lost in the crowds.

Athos was aware that things had slowed around him. People had stopped to stare, of course they had. But it seemed his thinking had slowed down as well, and he had no plan. Soon, his legs would buckle and he would lie untended on the cobblestones, people stepping over him. This was Paris, there was rarely time to help a stranger; even a King's Musketeer.

Especially a King's Musketeer, now that the King had raised taxes again.

He left the knife alone. He knew that much.

Anyway, the blood thumping loudly in his ears was distraction enough and sure enough, his legs appeared to be failing him now.

He had resigned himself to collapse when a hand landed on the back of his neck.

"Come on, Musketeer, move along. You're 'olding everyone up!"

 _Porthos._

If he could just stay on his feet until Porthos realised what had happened ...

There! He was suddenly spun around, and he saw Porthos's smiling face come into his view.

He watched Porthos's face twist and felt his hands grab his arms, and then ... then he could follow his legs and fall.

But Porthos did not let him fall.

Or, more correctly, he went down with him.

The world twisted and fell away and he was staring up at the sky then.

He didn't pay attention to the sky nearly as much as he should, he thought.

It was such a shade of blue this morning.

He must thank Porthos, he thought, and looked for him.

Somewhere above him, he caught the glint of the earring in Porthos's ear. He was looking away, shouting. He wanted to tell Porthos not to move so much. It was painful now. But his mouth was full of ...

Oh.

He looked down at the knife still protruding from his chest.

He hoped no-one tried to remove it until Aramis told them to.

oOo

The young man watched as the dark-skinned Musketeer took control. He saw how he lowered his comrade to the ground; how he grabbed a boy and told him – ordered him – to run to the Garrison for help.

He had killed a Musketeer. His debt would be cancelled now.

So, why didn't he feel elated?

He had not asked questions when he had been given the ultimatum to kill one of the King's own guards. Too defeated by his own stupidity. But he had not intended to kill anyone. He had been in turmoil all morning about how to extricate himself from this awful predicament. But he knew the men would be watching him, and he held his knife close to him as his thoughts fell into turmoil.

He had seen the blue-cloaks on patrol, earlier. Only two of them.

Twice, he had moved toward them, only to fall back again.

The third time, he turned his back and walked away.

Stopping to put the knife back inside his jacket, he felt the sweat drip down his neck. Unsure of what to do now; how to get out of the city, away from his debtors; his mind worked furiously.

Then, everything changed in an instant.

The Musketeer had come up behind him and put his hand on him, and he had reacted, thinking it was one of them. In the end, he had done as they wanted anyway, despite his misgivings.

He had looked into the Musketeer's eyes.

And he had run.

oOo

Later, as he hung around and watched, he discovered the soldier was not dead.

He needed to be dead!

He would need to finish the job. Perhaps he could salvage this.

The Musketeer had seen him and he could identify him. He had looked at him for long enough.

Why had he looked at him like that?!

With such sadness.

oOo

"Clear that table!"

"Careful! Steady now, don't drop 'im."

"Athos? ... Can you hear me?"

"How long has he been like this?"

"Not that long. He wouldn't let go. Just hung on. Just lay there, all quiet."

"Porthos ...he will be alright, mon ami,"

"Will 'e?"

Aramis was staring at the knife.

"You gonna take that out?"

"Aramis?"

"I dare not; Lemay's on his way."

oOo

That seemed a long time ago.

They had been right not to attempt to remove the knife. For when they did, all hell broke loose.

The moment Lemay's hand took hold of the knife, Athos had come alive.

Lemay had stepped back, involuntarily; fearful of the raging man.

Porthos and Aramis struggled to hold him, until there was a mutual look between them and Porthos had executed a controlled fist into his jaw; and they could continue.

The knife wound was deep. The blade had acted as a plug, but once removed, it took a lot of compression for the resultant torrent of blood to ease.

He was still unconscious as the wound was cleaned and packed. Porthos worried that he had hit him too hard, but Aramis stilled him with a kind hand on his chest and Lemay nodded his assurances.

Settled in the infirmary, it was now a waiting game.

oOo

At some point later, Porthos would wonder why he had left Athos alone.

He wasn't long, just a quick run to the laundry for fresh sheets.

Athos had been as still as he had been since Lemay had finished. Porthos had urged Aramis to his room to sleep. They had forgotten to bring extra sheets for the night ahead, and Porthos had made a decision; checking all was well before he left the room.

That was all it took.

No-one had seen the man slip in, the regiment too busy on the training ground. He had waited until the dark-skinned one had left the room and then took his chance. Once this Musketeer was dead, he would be free of his debts and his family would be safe.

Holding his breath, the man pulled the pillow out from under the Musketeer's head.

He did not wake.

Standing over him, he held the pillow in both hands.

They said suffocation was quick, but now he had the means in his hands, he hesitated.

What if he struggled?

Although he didn't look like he had much fight in him.

"This is your fault," he muttered, angry at the still man in front of him.

"This is your own damn fault," he repeated as he stepped forward to drop the pillow on the man's face.

Suddenly, the door was thrown open and he spun around, hands still holding on to the pillow, now held tightly against his chest; before he dropped it to the floor at his feet and drew out his pistol.

Arms full of linen, Porthos took the scene in and turned blazing eyes on the man.

"Who the 'ell are you?!" he growled.

"Shut the door."

The pistol pointed at Athos's head was incentive enough.

"Move over there."

He waved the gun to the other side of the room and Porthos reluctantly did as he was bid; laying the sheets on the table; aware he was bereft of weapons and inwardly cursing himself.

The man dragged a chair across and rammed it under the handle of the door, before turning around.

Porthos took in Athos's still form.

"You did this?" Porthos ventured, aware of movement outside now, as his fellow Musketeers returned from their training.

"He came up behind me."

"An' you've come to finish the job," Porthos snarled.

"He saw me."

"An' now I've seen you too. You won't get out of 'ere alive,"

"I've got _you_ now though, haven't I?"

"I'm not important enough for them to let you go."

"We'll see."

The man seemed to hesitate, before crossing to the window; seeing returning Musketeers now milling around in the yard outside. They hadn't realised yet that something was happening.

"You ain't thinkin' straight," Porthos said quietly; watching him.

In response the man moved back across the room; gun still held tightly in his hand.

Suddenly the door opened, and Aramis stood there.

Porthos was blocking his view, but he saw a stranger pointing a gun at Athos, and he stilled.

"Porthos?"

The man stepped toward Athos and put the barrel of his gun to his temple.

Porthos stepped aside, giving Aramis a full view and carefully looked over his shoulder at his friend.

"S'alright, Aramis. Hold your peace. Got a situation 'ere."

"Athos?" Aramis whispered; the stranger forgotten until he had an answer.

Porthos's eyes flicked to Athos.

"Still out," he replied. "Don't worry; I won't let anythin' 'appen to 'im."

"Out!" the man shouted at Aramis.

Aramis stood his ground, until Porthos nodded his head.

"And shut the door!" the man yelled.

Still, Aramis hesitated.

"SHUT THE DAMNED DOOR!" he yelled again, and Aramis turned, sharing a look with Porthos;

 _We are near._

Aramis backed out and closed the door.

Outside, he put his forehead to the door, breathing heavily.

 _Be safe._

oOo

Inside, the man motioned Porthos to sit.

"What's yer name?" Porthos tried, sinking onto the wooden chair.

Silence.

The man stood with his back against the wall. He looked out the window, seeing Musketeers scrambling now, some coming close to the building and standing stationary, waiting.

The alarm had obviously gone up.

He was sweating and Porthos knew he had to be careful; the man was unstable at best.

"They won't do anythin'" Porthos said calmly. "Not til we talk."

"They'll kill me," he replied, wildly, before turning and staring at Porthos. "You can get me out."

"Yeah. I could. Ain't gonna though."

"What?"

"I ain't going anywhere til I know he's alright."

The man looked uncomprehending at him.

"He's my brother."

oOo

Later:

"His name's Athos," Porthos said. "If you're interested."

The man stared at him, before breaking eye contact and staring at the floor; gun still swinging loosely in his hand.

"Best man I know," Porthos added, quietly.

oOo

Porthos was watching Athos.

"Let me check 'im," he said. "Please." He was relieved when the man nodded.

Porthos picked up the discarded pillow and placed it back under his friend's head, before gently turning his head to rest comfortably. He checked the bandages on his chest and his heart hitched when he thought how close he had come. Just an inch to the right; or an inch lower ...

Lifting his limp hand, he gave it a squeeze before moving back.

All the time, the man watched him.

Porthos looked across at the stranger, meeting his gaze defiantly. The man looked away.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Aramis called out once more;

"There is food and wine here."

"Leave it," the man called. He moved to the door, opening it slightly and watching as Aramis retreated. He shut the door without collecting the tray that had been left on the floor in the corridor.

"You got family?" Porthos asked, as the man returned to his position against the wall.

The man did not reply, but he straightened and looked away.

"Ah. You got someone, I can tell."

"What do you know?!" the man sneered, but there was no fire in it.

He could hear footsteps outside in the corridor; he could see men stationed outside the window. The Musketeer who was talking to him looked like a coiled spring; no matter how gently he was speaking to him.

"If you hadn't, you'd 'ave just said so."

Just as he thought the man would remain silent, he spoke.

"Wife," he said, hardly audible.

Porthos hummed and nodded.

"They threaten 'er? Whoever you're workin' for ?"

"Shut up!" the man cried suddenly, and Porthos raised his hands in supplication.

Porthos nodded toward the door.

"Don't know about you, but I'm 'ungry. It's been a long day."

Porthos kept his hands up and stood carefully.

"You can keep me covered; just let me slide it in."

Surprisingly, the man agreed, standing back so that he could guard the space.

The door was carefully opened and Porthos crouched and took hold of the tray. Looking to the side, he could see Aramis at the end of the short corridor, and held out a hand for him to stay.

Aramis turned and hit the wall with his fist.

Porthos wanted this man compliant. He suspected he was as hungry as he was and he needed to talk to him. And to calm him.

"We can help," Porthos said, gently laying the tray on the table, keeping his hands in clear view all the time. The man was becoming more agitated as time wore on.

The man gave a hollow laugh and looked at Athos.

"After I did this?" he said, waving his gun toward Athos. "If you hadn't have come back, I would have smothered him and gone."

"No, I don't think so," Porthos said quietly.

"Why else would I be here!" the man shouted, uncomprehending.

"Porthos?" Aramis called through the door.

"Just talkin' Aramis," Porthos called back.

Once quiet had descended, Porthos turned back to the man.

"Oh, I don't doubt your intention," Porthos replied, pursing his lips, "Just your heart ain't in it. Is it, hmmm?"

The man's eyes suddenly filled up and he wiped his hand across them furiously.

Porthos broke a loaf of bread and held it out. When he saw the man was not going to take it, he put it on the small table close by.

"He'd let you go," Porthos added, nodding at Athos.

"What?!" the man said, his face screwing up in confusion.

"He'd understand."

"How do you know that?" the man said, staring at Porthos in confusion.

"Because I know 'im. Told ya."

The man reached out and took the bread. Looking down at it, he laughed bitterly.

"You're giving me bread. That's how it started."

Porthos understood then.

"You couldn't feed ya family, so you fell in people who promised you money."

"How did you know?" the man asked, taking a small bite, before guiltily putting it back on the table.

"That's 'ow it always starts. Before you know it, they've got ya."

The man looked at him.

"An' then the threats start and you'd do anythin' to protect what's yours."

"I thought he was one of them," the man said then, nodding at Athos. "They told me to kill a Musketeer, but I couldn't. I saw you patrolling, and I had my knife ready. I just couldn't do it."

"So what 'appened?"

"He came up behind me; I thought he was one of them, come to kill me."

"So, Athos was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The realisation of what Porthos said seemed to jolt the man.

"Enough! I have to get out of here!" he said; raising his pistol once more.

The man turned to look down at Athos, and Porthos took an urgent step forward; fearful now.

" _He's my brother_ ," he said quietly, heart in his mouth.

"And she's my wife!" he man growled.

"She wouldn't want this," Porthos said fiercely, needing to get the man's attention away from Athos.

For Porthos had seen his eyes open.

Athos had been staring at him for the past few minutes.

And Porthos had seen his hand move.

Porthos shifted, drawing the man's attention to him once more, so that they were facing each other.

Very carefully, he looked past the man toward Athos.

He saw Athos raise his hand weakly; behind the man's back.

Athos counted to three on his fingers, slowly and deliberately holding Porthos's gaze with unfocussed eyes. But that had never stopped Athos before and realising his intention, Porthos gave him a slight nod and took a step forward.

The man stepped back in response, his body now close to Athos's shoulder.

"You don't 'ave to do this," Porthos pleaded, urgently; throwing the man with his sudden change of tone.

"It's too late now," the man said, recovering.

Athos raised one finger, barely moving his hand from the mattress.

 _1 ..._

The man raised his gun, pointing it at Porthos now.

"It's not too late; we can help you,"

A second finger;

 _2 ..._

"I'm dead already, you don't know them!"

 _3 ..._

Athos's hand reached up on the count of three and he grabbed the man's belt, pulling him off balance.

The gun went off, the noise echoing through the room.

Porthos launched himself and drove the man backwards toward the window.

On impact, the window gave, and the man fell through; straight into the arms of the two musketeers stationed there. Porthos stopped himself from falling through by bracing his hands on either side of the shattered window frame; breathing hard.

"I do know them. Known that sort of my life," Porthos said, as the man was led away.

He had seen a chink in the man's armour and he and Athos had worked together to exploit it.

He turned to Athos, and saw his arm hanging over the side of the cot, blood seeping through the bandage. Eyes closed.

"I'd call you a damned fool, but I reckon you saved our lives," he whispered to the now-unconscious man.

Just then, the door burst open and Aramis was there; taking in Porthos and skidding to Athos's side in one urgent movement.

oOo

Athos's wound was recleaned and repacked. This time, he didn't fight them; secure in the knowledge of who they were and where he was. This time, he was not left alone as he slept.

Two days later Aramis was able to put stitches in and his recovery began.

Only Porthos had seen what the stranger had intended to do.

Only he had seen him hold the pillow above Athos's face.

Only he had seen him hesitate; and had heard his story, urged from him by Porthos's quiet questions.

The man had not pleaded with him. He had not used his failures as an excuse. He had simply been driven by circumstance and desperation and the need to protect his wife. In the end, overwhelmed by what he had done and the odds that were stacked against him, he had lost hope.

Porthos did not discuss it with anyone; waiting to speak to Athos, who had his own tale to tell.

Perhaps, between them, they could determine if the man was worthy of compassion.

It took a man who understood compassion to grant it to others.

Porthos understood it and he knew that Athos did too.

Athos also understood despair.

Perhaps that's what Athos saw that morning in the market, when they had looked into each other's eyes.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks soon.


	10. If These Walls Could Talk (1)

**10\. IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK (1)**

 **One of them (perhaps?):**

 **2017 - Paris**

Pascal Vernier pulled back the hoarding; just a little – just enough to peer inside.

This had been a prominent building in its time.

In the seventeen century, it had been part of the garrison of the King's Musketeers. It had been burnt down, they said, sometime back then but had been rebuilt several times since. Now, it was up for redevelopment again; having fallen into disrepair.

It was an abomination that over recent years it had been neglected so, Pascal thought, for the Musketeers were men who had protected the King and had lived, eaten, slept and probably been fixed up in this building.

If these walls could talk ...

oOo

Pascal knew this was illegal; he was trespassing, but he could not let an opportunity like this pass by.

They were a team and so he brought his brothers with him. Not his real brothers, of course, but brothers in all but blood; forged through school and university. They were all working now in successful jobs, but in their spare time they were psychic investigators. Paris was full of fine historic buildings with many a tale to tell. Their "hobby" had started at university and they had gathered some strange findings over the years.

They had formed a Psychic Society during their university life and had even converted a few of their lecturers with their enthusiasm and talks, which were always "sold out" in terms of bums on seats. Some of the "evidence" they had collected had been interesting, to say the least; once teamed with research. The four of them appeared to have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Some would say that was dubious; others, that they knew what they were doing. Over the years, they had procured enough specialist equipment to back up any findings they offered up. As yet, they had seen nothing tangible, but their audio recordings had left others who were perhaps, more qualified, dumbfounded.

One day, Pascal hoped they would have tangible evidence. Something that could not be refuted.

Their investigations were always above board and legal; they sought permission and permits for any buildings they entered.

But not this time.

Not with this opportunity.

For Pascal was a distant descendant of the legendary d'Artagnan, whose statue sat in the Place Malesherbes. That is where they had gathered one morning, this modern day brotherhood and had forged their plan.

Work would soon commence once more on this building. There had been rumblings of strange occurrences when the surveyors had first set foot there. They knew they had just one chance; one attempt to set up their equipment and see what they could find within these walls. For there were still some of the original walls within the footprint of the building.

And walls _could_ talk.

He was a testament to that.

Perhaps his ancestry would be on his side this time.

oOo

So it was that a few days from the construction date, four young men slipped behind the hoarding with backpacks on their shoulders and stood within a long room to await nightfall. The building had been cleared by the previous occupant, a wine merchant, who used the cellar of the building for storage but had done little else to the building itself. It had been used over the decades by various businesses which had kept the basic structure of the rooms on the ground floor. The upper floors had been added in the eighteenth century and had since been used for accommodation.

However, it was _this_ room, the ground floor room, that Pascal was particularly interested in.

He believed it had been the Infirmary. If a room could absorb human emotion, it would be such a room.

The others peeled off, three of them heading upstairs as Pascal stepped further into the room.

Now that he was well inside the room, he flicked on the flashlight he had been carrying and swept it around in a wide arc.

There were smaller rooms leading off this main rectangular room which he would investigate later but in the meantime, he set down his backpack and unzipped it. Pulling out his audio equipment, he set to work setting it up.

There was electricity here, but he set a battery-powered lamp next to his working area. He had learned from past experience that power could be cut off suddenly with no warning, once an investigation commenced.

The end of the room was deep in shadow, which he thought was strange, as the windows had been boarded up and no light shone in any other part of the room to cast such darkness at one end. He flicked on his flashlight once more.

The shadows disappeared, but Pascal sucked in his breath when he saw the brickwork there. Untouched, it seemed by the four centuries that had passed. The rough bricks and untidy mortar still stood as a testament to that time, and he walked slowly across the room and ran his hands over the now dusty surface.

"What tales you must hold, wall," he whispered reverently, before stepping back and quickly taking out his mobile phone and snapping a photo of the precious wall.

Turning his back to go back to his equipment, he suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling creep over the back of his neck; the hairs prickled as he involuntarily shivered; and he realised that the inky black shadows had fallen once more behind him. Stepping quickly away, he shook himself. He had been in such situations before, but he could not for the life of him remember ever feeling such a mixture of emotions passing through him.

Fear, yes, but something else.

Hearing a sudden noise, he looked up at the ceiling. Something upstairs had fallen over.

"Only me!" he heard Martin shout from above and he smiled to himself and shook his head. Of all of them, Martin was the clumsiest, always falling over his own feet. He was letting his nerves get the better of him.

He went back to his tasks, setting up laser trip beams and switching on his audio equipment.

Still he could not shake off the feeling at his back of ... what was it?

 _Tension ...readiness?_

Twice, he turned quickly around, fearing something close; only to be confronted by the black shadows once more.

The third time, he straightened, and turned purposefully around to face that foreboding wall.

"Who's there?" he murmured, to be met with nothing but silence.

"d'Artagnan, I swear if that is you, I fear your opponents for you emit a fearsome aura!" he said quietly to himself as he checked his batteries and realigned his beams. He could hear the footfalls of his brothers on the floor above, which grounded him somewhat.

Suddenly, he caught a sharpening of the atmosphere. An ominous shift.

A feeling now that had crystallised into the notion of _being watched._

And then, a smell ...

Chamomile?

The hairs on the back of his arms now rose, as he peered at the back wall; shrouded now in even deeper shadow.

He went to take a step forward but was suddenly frozen in place by the sound of something dropping sharply to the floor.

Then, _rolling_ ...

Out of the shadows a small object rolled toward him, bouncing on the stone floor.

It continued to roll until it ran out of momentum, close to his foot.

Bending, he picked it up, frowning.

A small, round, metal object. He suddenly realised what it was.

A musket ball!

Rolling it around in his palm, he stared at it.

Battered, but serviceable.

Lifting his head and looking back to the shadows, he smiled.

"What are you telling me? You are a Musketeer?

The smell became much stronger. Definitely chamomile. And a hint of lavender, perhaps.

"Or a medic?" he whispered, the aroma of herbs stronger now.

"Perhaps both?"

He flinched as a second object rolled toward him, and he picked up a second musket ball.

 _This was amazing_. And a little scary.

Despite the lingering coil of fear in his stomach, a broad grin began to spread across his face.

"Oh. You were _both_ , my friend," he murmured, turning the ball over in his hand.

Looking around, he saw he still had the place to himself; his friends were still on the upper floor and so he sat down.

"Which one are you? d'Artagnan? I am a descendant of his!" he cried. "On my mother's side," he qualified; as if he would be challenged by the shadows.

"Charles de Batz de Castelmore d'Artagnan," Pascal continued, to the dark corner.

"He was a fine soldier, brought down at the Siege of Maastricht in 1673."

The silence stretched, and Pascal found himself scouring his mind for more questions.

"Or are you Athos, perhaps? Or Porthos? They could be myths of course; though Dumas is said to have modelled them on others who _did_ live – so you never know," he gabbled on.

"What about Aramis?" he said suddenly. "The romantic hero?"

At that, something fell once more behind him and rolled across the floor. A third musket ball... Where _were_ they coming from?!

"Ah! Aramis. You sly old dog. What are you doing here? Do you have an assignation? Are you waiting to reunite with your brothers-in-arms? Come to see the building renovated? Apparently this was the infirmary. Lord, what must it have been like then!"

The shadows softened, but he could see nothing. He took out his notebook and began to scribble.

As he did so, the aroma of herbs became stronger; together with an overpowering feeling of helplessness. His stomach lurched as a sudden wave of emotions hit him.

" _You_ were the medic?" Pascal whispered, as the emotions made sense. "A soldier _and_ a medic? Then, you have my respect."

"And what _is_ that smell? Lavender? Is that what you used?"

"What did you have to work with, my friend? No drugs, no anaesthetics. What men you must have been to endure that ..." he trailed off.

The aroma drifted away.

"Are you here to see what I am doing?" Pascal murmured, after a few moments.

"There were tales of you," he continued. "There are tales still, of Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. There are books and movies; you would not believe it!"

"But, of course, you do not know what movies are, do you?"

He peered into the shadows, but they were quite dense and revealed nothing.

Still, he felt compelled to continue ...

"Who I am? You must be wondering?"

He was aware of how excited he was now feeling, as his words tumbled out; charged by the musket balls held tight in his hand. The fear was gone. Replaced by an air of calm; almost, an _amusement_ in the air as he imagined his "visitor" watching him babble.

"I can tell you that. I can tell you, who I am; who we are!" he added, thinking of his friends upstairs.

"And," he cried, "I can tell you what has happened since you graced this place with your charismatic presence."

And so, he told him; the shadow in the corner that was there, but was not.

He told him about movies; before he realised how banal that must sound to a man of action.

So he sat back and told him about warfare; of the destruction and power and terrible consequences; he would understand _that_. And of tanks and missiles and bombs; which he would not. For who could understand that?

Then, sobered; he told him of medicine and of the leaps that had been made.

He told him of anaesthetics and prosthetics, of lasers and drugs.

He told him of the advance in communications. He held up his phone to the wall as an example; aware of how ridiculous it seemed; but all his past experiences in searching through buildings was insignificant to this and he was lost in euphoria.

He was explaining a phone to a shadow!

He had to stop to catch his breath.

Settling, he told the shadow that brotherhood still existed, despite the wars, and was evident in the men who had accompanied him tonight; who were careful and respectful and in awe of the past as they crept through a building, listening; reading the signs; collecting evidence of lives passed.

He told of the plans for the building and that some of the base level would be still preserved. France does respect its heritage," he said, "despite what it did to the Monarchy."

Oh.

And he told him about that too, pulling out his phone once more and looking up the French Monarchy, so that he could get his facts right.

Before he spoke of the Revolution though, he told him about Louis XIV; who he thought was on the throne at the time of the Musketeers; later finding out he came later of course, and the blue-cloaked elite soldiers had been formed to protect his father, Louis XIII and thereafter the Dauphin; his young son.

He spoke of the Regency of Anne of Austria, who had ruled until the Dauphin was of age.

All the time he was talking about the young Dauphin, the atmosphere had been electric and it had spurred him on.

He spoke of the great legacy Louis XIV left; making France a leading European power. Of the wars he fought, which defined his foreign policy. How warfare had fed his vanity. How Louis had loved flattery and adulation; how he had compelled many members of the nobility to inhabit the lavish Palace of Versailles; thereby pacifying them and consolidating his rule.

And for a moment, just one brief heady moment, he thought he caught sight of a booted foot shifting position across the room and the glint of a smile.

He sat back, exhausted.

He then raised his hand to his forehead and saluted; a gesture he had _never_ used before, but felt compelled to do so then.

"What are you doing ...?" Martin said behind him, suddenly coming noisily into the room.

"Just having a chat," Pascal smiled at him. "I have a lot to tell you."

He stood and raised his hand once more to salute into the shadowy corner. But the shadows were gone; the dusty brick could now be seen as the dawn approached.

He felt bereft.

Later, when he studied his print-outs, they showed a reading which almost leapt off the page at the time of his discussion; and he had smiled and called his friends over. It had been one of the best results they had had in a while. His friends had found nothing upstairs but this more than made up for it.

The three musket balls lay on his desk.

He stared at them throughout the day; reaching out to touch them; to ensure they were real.

He could not sleep.

Tonight, Pascal would go back; alone this time.

To talk to _Aramis_.

Perhaps there was still time.

"Whatever they do to that place; it will always be yours," he said, looking with awe at the musket balls.

"Yours and your brother's," he added, picking them up and rolling them around in his palm. They had become his most precious possession.

" _All for One; and One for All,_ " he smiled.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

"If These Walls Could Talk (2)" coming next – (Back in the 17th century, lol).


	11. If These Walls Could Talk (2)

**11\. IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK (2)**

 **All of Them**

"Why are we doing this again?" d'Artagnan asked as they stood in the doorway, surveying the room.

"It is our penance," Athos replied, simply.

"What for?"

"Duelling with the Red Guard," he replied.

"Did we?"

"No, because that would be illegal."

"It wasn't duelling," Athos continued. "It was merely a lesson."

"A lesson in what?"

"In accepting an invitation to duel."

"Come again?"

"If they did not accept, we could not be accused of d ... teaching them a lesson."

"But why the Infirmary? Treville usually directs us to the stables," Aramis interjected over d'Artagnan's confusion.

"Who knows? He was in a particularly foul mood this morning," Athos replied.

"I wouldn't mind, but I wasn't even with you," d'Artagnan complained.

"All for one, my young friend," Aramis laughed, passing him a broom.

"Just this room, or the other two as well?" Porthos asked, looking around the large room.

The Infirmary comprised one large oblong room for multiple occupancy with two smaller ones, which afforded some privacy to those who needed it. There was also a room that surgeons used, if required; Aramis when not. That room held a large imposing table that always made d'Artagnan shiver to think of the use it had been put to.

"All. Treville was quite clear on the matter."

"Right," Athos continued. "Let us have some order here. Aramis – what do we need to do primarily?" he asked, deferring to the medic.

Aramis sighed, looking around. As luck would have it, the infirmary had not been in use of late but that meant the door had been closed on it and attention had been given to other duties.

"Sweeping, airing, scrubbing floors and walls," he replied. He looked at the ceiling, seeing a few gruesome stains up there.

"And the ceiling," he added.

They all followed his gaze up there.

"Is that...?" d'Artagnan whispered, before clamping his mouth shut on the word "blood," and swallowing.

"Porthos," Aramis turned to their large friend, who was currently rummaging through cupboards. "Was that you?" he said, pointing at the ceiling.

Porthos followed his pointing finger and looked at the brown marks on the plaster over him.

He burst out laughing.

"Yeah, I think that was when you hit something you shouldn't have; back when you were practisin'"

Aramis placed his hand over his heart and stepped next to Porthos and slung his arm around his shoulder as they both gazed fondly up at the said stain.

Porthos rubbed his thigh absent-mindedly;

"Who knew blood could spurt that far?" he reminisced.

"You could have died, Porthos," Aramis murmured.

"Yeah, but I didn't." Porthos replied. "And you're much better at it now," he added, with a glint in his eye.

"You will never get that off," Athos said, breaking the spell and looking up at the ceiling as he tied his scarf over his face and picked up one of the brooms they had brought with them.

"It looks like a musket," Aramis mused. "See, the stock and the barrel?"

"Oh yeah. Appropriate," Porthos laughed as they both gazed at the pattern on the ceiling.

d'Artagnan was busy staring up, twisting his head this way and that.

"I can't see it. Looks more like a tree," he frowned.

Aramis and Porthos both stared a little more, before Porthos waved his hand in an "either or" gesture and Athos brought them back with a sharp rap of his broom on the floor.

"Gentlemen, can I remind you The Wren awaits us when we are done here? Aramis, continue."

Aramis looked around and scratched his head.

"Well, the beds have been stripped but the mattresses need pummelling and airing. The woodwork needs washing and the cupboards sorting and replenishing.

"Very well," Athos said, somewhat muffled behind the scarf.

"d'Artagnan, you and Porthos each do the smaller rooms. Open the windows and sweep. Once the dust has settled, mop the floor and wash the walls. Aramis and I will make a start on this room. When you have finished, join us in here; we should be finished by sundown."

Porthos did not look convinced as they each tied a scarf around their faces. He straightened his bandana and each set to their tasks.

For a while, all was quiet, save for the sound of four brooms sweeping over stone flagstones. The large room filled with dust and soon, Aramis and Athos were coughing.

"Are we doing this right?" Athos muttered, wandering off to inspect one of the smaller rooms.

Porthos too was struggling against the dust that billowed up at each stroke of his broom.

d'Artagnan though, was busy in a dust-free room, humming to himself.

Catching sight of Athos watching him from the doorway, he stopped.

"What?"

"Why are you not in a state of near suffocation?" Athos asked.

Beckoning a confused d'Artagnan to the room next door that Porthos was "cleaning," they were both amused to see their friend somewhat greyer than the skin tone he usually was, as the dust swirled around him.

"If you sprinkle water on the floor, it stops the dust flying up," d'Artagnan said, knowingly.

Porthos gaped at him, before throwing his broom aside and stalking off in search of water.

"Good to know," Athos muttered, before turning on his heel and walking back to the larger room to impart this new knowledge to his cleaning partner.

"Wouldn't expect a Comte to know that," d'Artagnan smirked as he returned to his task.

oOo

"There's a musket ball-sized hole here!" d'Artagnan cried a little later, running his finger over the hole in the wall of his room.

"That's when me and Athos were held 'ostage," Porthos shouted from the next room, matter-of-factly. "Though _he_ won't remember much of it. He'd been stabbed in the chest at the time."

"What?!"

"Before you arrived here, shoutin' the odds. It's a long story. Remind me tonight when we're in The Wren and I'll tell ya."

"In the meantime, get a bucket and start washin' those walls, or we'll never get out of 'ere."

oOo

They all worked steadily on.

At some point, Serge brought food and wine, and d'Artagnan and Porthos joined Athos and Aramis in the main room.

"Captain's orders," Serge said, "As long as you're finished by nightfall."

"We will be," Athos replied, pouring wine into four glasses.

"Serge, do you remember the incident with the grains? Aramis asked the old veteran. It seemed to be a day for memories and this one had suddenly swirled into his mind.

"'Course I do. Well, you will ...," their cook replied, nodding at Aramis.

"Food poisoning," Serge said quietly. "Contaminated cereals. I'd used it to bake bread and make porridge. Didn't realise."

"Not your fault," Athos said firmly, handing him the cup of wine he had poured himself.

Serge took it and threw it down his throat in one go.

"A lot took real sick though," he muttered.

"Both of you ..." the old man said, nodding at Athos and Porthos.

"And then you," he said, looking at Aramis.

"Captain was beside 'imself." Serge said. "Nearly lost his three best men in one go."

Serge shuffled out and Aramis blew out a ragged breath and ran his hand through his hair; regretting unsettling the old man.

oOo

After eating, d'Artagnan and Porthos had stayed in the main room and were now collecting the mattresses, ready to haul them outside and give them a beating.

Athos and Aramis were busy swabbing the floor, having sprinkled water on the dust and sweeping it up in preparation. They had worked out from the centre of the room. Reaching his end of the room, Athos turned and saw Aramis had stopped and was staring at the floor. Pulling his scarf down, he quietly approached him.

"What is it, old friend?" he asked, gently placing his hand on his friend's shoulder.

Aramis flinched, before looking at him with anguished eyes.

"We lost eight men in that ambush," he said, looking at the flagstones at the end of the room.

"Nearly lost Athos," Porthos added quietly;

"This room was fit to burstin' and then some of them took with the fever."

"What happened?" d'Artagnan asked.

"They laid us on the floor," Athos said quietly, looking from Porthos to Aramis.

"Coldest place we could think of," Porthos said, meeting Athos's gaze.

"The best idea you had," Aramis added, smiling at Porthos.

oOo

"Why has this bedpost got notches on it?" d'Artagnan asked, as he pulled the last mattress off the bed.

They all stopped and looked amused, apart from Aramis, who looked embarrassed.

"Aramis did that," Porthos said, chuckling.

d'Artagnan looked at Aramis with raised eyebrows.

The man himself sat on the edge of one of the cots and sighed.

Athos took up the tale.

"Aramis was confined to bed with a head injury," he began.

"Only, 'e got bored," Porthos interjected.

"So he started to carve the bed post. Although the significance of each notch escapes me," Athos said quietly, looking away.

"Except that last one," Porthos added, nodding at the notch at the bottom.

Athos and Porthos both looked at each other, before they both said together;

" _Madame Charbonneau_."

"Somehow," Athos continued, "Madame discovered Aramis was resident in this facility and decided to pay him a visit."

"She was only comforting me," Aramis said, meeting their gaze for a brief moment before looking away.

"Treville didn't see it that way," Porthos laughed.

"He should have knocked," Aramis muttered, before finally meeting their eyes and joining in their amusement.

"Good job these walls can't talk," Porthos said, clapping Aramis on the shoulder.

"Or the bedposts," Athos murmured.

oOo

Walls and floors washed and mattresses beaten, Aramis began to empty the cupboards. Pots and jars were inspected. Some were discarded and some put to one side to be replenished.

"It's quite a place, isn't it?" d'Artagnan said, as he wrote down the herbs and liquids Aramis called out before closing the cupboard doors and collecting the detrious.

"I never really thought about it."

"That is because you have never needed it. Yet," Athos replied.

"Try 'an keep it that way," Porthos growled.

"It is a place none of us would choose to be in, but we are all grateful for, in times of need," Aramis replied.

"Amen to that," Porthos said.

Captain Treville came in as the light started to fade and looked around.

He said nothing, lost in his own thoughts.

Finally, he turned his eyes on them.

It was uncomfortable to say the least.

"Dismissed," he finally said.

Just one word, before turning and leaving.

They all looked at each other.

"What was that about?"

Athos turned and looked at them.

"He has made his point," he said.

"Well, 'e's got a clean infirmary," Porthos said.

"No," replied Athos. "That was not the point of this exercise."

"What then?" d'Artagnan asked, looking confused.

Athos stared at the door through which Treville had left.

"This is why Treville set us this task," he said, having realised the intent.

They looked at him.

Athos looked around the room. They followed his gaze as he looked at the ceiling and at the flagstones at the end of the room.

"He set us this particular task to remind us how precious life is, and to remind us how we have fought for our lives within these walls."

"And the lesson is not to endanger ourselves unnecessarily," Aramis added, in response.

"Indeed."

They were all quiet for a solemn moment, before Athos picked up his jacket and shrugged it on.

"Clean up, gentlemen," he said. "And then we will go to The Wren to celebrate."

"What are we celebratin'?" Porthos asked, following them out.

"Our new outlook," Athos replied quietly.

oOo

A/N: Thanks for reading. More soon.


	12. Blind Spot

**BLIND SPOT**

Sometimes, help – though well intentioned – does not always go to plan.

oOo

 **Athos, Aramis and Porthos:**

"Do we really have to get there this early?!" Porthos grumbled, as they trudged toward the Garrison, past a few early morning traders who were beginning to their up their stalls.

Aramis turned to face him. He had pulled his friend from his bed at an ungodly hour for a very good reason.

"I just want to make sure Athos has returned. He's been gone two days."

Porthos picked up an apple from a trader's stall and tossed the woman a coin. Handing it to Aramis, he clapped him on the back, in full agreement. They had last seen their friend after their last evening meal together, when he had made his excuses and headed off alone. Whether to his room or to a tavern they did not ask, for it appeared Athos did not need their company and they knew when to leave him be.

Aramis gave the lone guard up on the wall a brief wave as they walked beneath him along the perimeter wall.

"He'll turn up," Porthos had just said when they turned into the archway, on their way to being the first to arrive.

Aramis suddenly threw out his arm, stopping Porthos in his tracks as in front of them was a prone figure lying on the rough ground, stretched along the length of the wall of the arch. A blanket had been thrown loosely over the figure, making it impossible to see who it was.

An hour later and whoever it was would have been trampled by the first wagon of the day.

Moving fast, they reached the figure and pulled the blanket away.

"Athos," Aramis whispered, recognising the mop of hair and sinking to his knees.

Porthos knelt down beside Aramis and together they rolled Athos over onto his back. He was deeply unconscious and did not respond to the gentle tapping on his face, by his anxious friends. They could not see any blood, but on closer inspection, he appeared to have a bandage wrapped tightly around his torso beneath his shirt.

"We can't leave him here," Aramis said, as he gently pulled him into a sitting position, "the store wagons will be coming soon."

Together, they got a boneless Athos to his feet. Porthos slipped one arm around his back and the other under his knees and scooped him up. Aramis held the back of his head and they made their way to the infirmary.

Once inside, they divested him of his leathers and Aramis carefully unwrapped the bandage. Underneath, they saw that a dark bruise was beginning to form at the centre of his ribcage. It did not account for his lack of response, he felt, and so he began to probe every inch of his scalp, before finding a lump at the back of his head.

"He's not been drinkin'" Porthos said, straightening. "Not a whiff of wine."

Looking more carefully at the dark bruise, Aramis blew out a breath.

"Looks like he was struck with something," he said to himself.

"He would 'ave seen them coming though," Porthos replied. "Must have come up behind him first, which would account for that lump on the back of 'is head."

Aramis straightened and stood with his hands on his hips, worriedly lost in thought. He went to the cupboard and withdrew his sewing kit. Back at the table, he took a needle and slid it into the back of his friend's hand.

"No response," he murmured. "All we can do is make him comfortable, and watch him."

They moved him to one of the smaller rooms and continued to try and work out what could have happened. Athos had no money on him and Aramis noticed that the chain he always wore around his neck was gone.

"Straightforward robbery," Porthos growled.

"But how did he find his way back here in this condition?" Aramis replied.

"And how come he had a blanket over 'im?"

Aramis picked the blanket up from the table where they had left it, and studied it carefully. It was old and threadbare in places, but it had been neatly patched and was clean.

"What on earth is going on?" Aramis said quietly, as he put the folded blanket on the end of the bed and sat down next to Athos. He lifted his hand and studied it, then ran his hand over his friend's face.

"He's clean. There is no dirt on his hands or his face. Almost as if he washed.

"That don't make sense," Porthos replied. "And where did he get the bandage?"

"More to the point, who applied it? Quite well, I might add."

" _None_ of this makes sense, mon ami," Aramis added, in response to Porthos's first statement.

He pulled the sheet up over Athos and sighed.

" _Where have you been, my friend_?"

oOo

They had searched for him when he had failed to return, of course, but Treville was gone too and they wondered if they were together – gone early to the palace. Athos sometimes did accompany the Captain. But Treville had returned that first day as night fell, tired and irritable. He was not in a mood to discuss his missing lieutenant, who, he pointed out, was not due on duty that day anyway, and that was the uneasy end of it. Until they had entered the Garrison as dawn broke and found him; thinking for an awful moment that he was dead.

Aramis and Porthos were at a loss. Treville fired questions at Aramis that he could not answer. He and Porthos look at each other in despair.

Their friend was the centre of the mystery but at the moment, he was beyond reach.

oOo

Athos remained unresponsive.

A physician had arrived, as requested by Treville, but he could only tell Aramis to continue to do what he was doing; mainly keeping Athos comfortable.

Aramis, though, began to worry that the blow to his head had been more severe than they had at first thought. Athos had not moved, remaining deadly still; only the shallow rise and fall of his chest an indication that he was still with them. Porthos and Aramis both watched him the first night; neither one wanting to take their eyes off him.

"What we gonna do?" Porthos had said quietly, as he opened the shutters as dawn broke.

"I have absolutely no idea," Aramis replied, running his hand through his hair.

"Go wash up," Porthos said, "I'll watch 'im."

Aramis did not reply.

"I'll get us somethin' to eat when you come back," Porthos persisted.

Aramis reluctantly complied; closing the door gently as he went out. As he walked across the yard, his eyes strayed to the archway. Three boys were standing there, looking nervously around. They looked like brothers, the youngest perhaps around ten years old; the others each a year or two older.

Aramis kept his eyes on them as he walked over. It was not uncommon for young boys to hang around the Garrison entrance; fascinated by the goings-on and wanting to watch the Musketeers train and spar. They were always shooed away, for their own safety; sometimes with bread or cheese if they looked like they needed it.

These three boys were different. Their eyes were downcast, and the oldest one looked furtive rather than fascinated.

"Boys?" Aramis said, as he approached, "You should not be here."

"How is he?" the middle one suddenly asked, his eyes bright.

"How is who?" Aramis asked quietly, suddenly giving the boy his full attention.

"The Musketeer. We didn't mean it! We thought we were helping ..." the boy's voice trailed off.

"Mother told us to bring him back," the oldest boy now said, stepping forward and pushing his two brothers behind him. "But we were scared you'd think we did it."

"Did what, exactly?"

"Hurt him."

Aramis reached out and put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You'd better start from the beginning," he said quietly. "Come with me."

oOo

Aramis took the three boys to the infirmary, but kept them in the large room. Not wanting to leave them alone, he called Porthos.

The three boys flinched when the large Musketeer came through the door, his frame almost filling the doorway.

"It's alright. This is Porthos. We three are brothers too. Now, sit down and tell us everything."

oOo

The oldest boy gave his name as Gerard and said his brothers were Jorge, the youngest, and Jacques. Aramis sat them down and he and Porthos sat down in front of them and both leaned forward expectantly.

"Go on, lad," Porthos said softly. "Speak up."

Gerard swallowed but seemed relieved to be able to talk and his words began to spill out.

"Never seen someone in so much pain still be able to talk," Gerard started.

"Mother made up her pain draught and that helped, and he finally fell asleep," Jorge added, wanting to help.

"Then, he woke up," Gerard continued, "and he was trying to breathe, but he was struggling. So I managed to sit him up a bit, and he settled. So I gave him some more of mother's draught and he fell asleep."

"What we didn't know later was Jorge gave him some more, and then ... he might have helped himself, as Jorge left the bottle by his bed."

He held out the bottle and Aramis took it. Sniffing it carefully, he looked back at them. It was nothing he recognised.

"It's mother's own recipe. Passed down the family. Works really well, but you don't need much."

His voice trailed away.

"And he's had too much," Jacques added, looking warily at Porthos.

The older one nodded.

"We panicked, once we realised. Mother said to bring him back today anyway, so we loaded him up early and set off at first light; before she woke."

"So 'e wasn't lyin' there all night," Porthos said, looking at Gerard intently.

"No! We just wanted to get him back before she found out. We thought he was going to stop breathing."

"How did you get past the guard?"

"You've got a blind spot," the boy replied simply, pointing at the parapet about the archway.

Aramis and Porthos both followed his finger.

"If you keep close to the wall," Gerard explained, "On the far side of the arch, there's a section of wall just before the arch that can't be seen from top of the wall."

" You just have to wait for the guard to look away, or move along, and by the time he's looked back, you can be inside the archway," Jorge said, sounding quiet pleased with himself, for it was he that had first discovered it a few months previously.

Aramis looked at Porthos and raised his eyebrows. Porthos shrugged.

"You might want this," Jorge added, handing Aramis Athos's locket. "It was next to him in the doorway. They took his money but they must have dropped that."

"You saw who did this?!"

"No, but we saw them running off. We were coming back with the cart from selling Maman's vegetables. That's how we got him home."

Aramis poured the three boys a cup of watered down wine, and they sat quietly for a few moments, before Gerard continued.

"He didn't seem too bad at first, but then he started struggling to breathe. Maman took charge and we helped her strap him up. She said his ribs were most likely broke, or this bone here .." the boy put his fingers to his own breast bone, "broke or cracked, she said."

"She talked to him for a bit, and then went to bed. He was asleep by then. She asked us to take turns watching him. He was in our room.

"In my bed," Jorge piped up. "I slept on the floor," he added, though he appeared to think nothing of it.

"So he woke up?" Aramis said, relieved in view of his head injury.

"At first, for a bit, yes."

"Don't worry," Aramis replied, "You did well. You may even have done him a favour."

"How? We nearly killed him!" Jacques cried; the first time he had spoken.

"Drugged as he is," Aramis smiled, "he has at least been still. Had he been conscious, we would have had the Devil's own job to keep him from hurting himself more."

"He don't like bein' hurt," Porthos explained, as the three boys stared at him.

"I'd like to speak to your mother," Aramis said, suddenly standing, and looking down at them.

"Don't worry, you're not in trouble. I would just like her to tell us what the mixture consists of. And if she would like to share her recipe. It appears to be a powerful concoction. The King's Musketeers would be very grateful and I think our Captain will see her well-rewarded. Not only for this," he said, holding out the bottle, "But for pointing out our blind spot."

Later that day, a woman approached the Garrison, with her eldest son, Gerard, who urged her through the archway.

"How is your man?" she asked, after introducing herself as Linette Allard.

"His name is Athos, madame," Aramis replied. "And I am Aramis," he added, giving her a gentle bow. "We are in your debt, I believe."

Her fearful look eased a little at his words.

"His enforced rest is no doubt helping his ribs but we need him to wake now," he added.

She produced a small bottle from beneath her shawl.

"Give him half today and half tomorrow," she said, "Though it may give him a vicious headache."

"He is used to that," Aramis replied with a smile.

"What does it contain?" he asked her, holding the bottle up to the light.

She merely held his gaze.

"I understand," he said. "Very well, but we must talk, when this is over."

oOo

Aramis and Porthos escorted Madame Allard and her son to their Captain's office. Sitting under the gaze of these three men, Linette looked very nervous, until Treville assured her she was not in trouble; they just wanted to know her story.

Linette pulled her shawl around her as a look of despair briefly crossed her features. She told them that she had received her husband back into their home six months previously with a heavy heart.

He had been a soldier too, and they had returned him to her with a broken spine. He had been in such pain that soon she was exhausted caring from him and her three boys. After a few weeks, her medicine became stronger out of necessity, and then he was begging her for more. On the brief occasions she slept through the night, the boys would give him the draught. They could not bear his cries.

"The moment he turned his eyes on us, whichever one of us was with him would give him the medicine," Gerard said. "In the end, he didn't have to ask. The pain asked for him."

"When he passed, it was a relief. For him and for us," Linette whispered.

She reached out suddenly and took her son's hand in hers.

"When the boys brought your man ... Athos ... back, this Friday past – it was dark and the weather had turned. We had no idea who he was. Just a poor soul who had been attacked and needed help."

Aramis smiled at her in encouragement and she swallowed, and drew Gerard to her.

"I made up the medicine once more and we waited for him to wake. When he did, he could not breathe. It took all of us to find a position where he could draw air into his lungs. He had been better unconscious."

"They had damaged his ribs and he had a concussion, but that night, propped up against Gerard, he managed to tell us he was a soldier. That was all though, but I could tell by his voice, he was well-bred. Not a common man."

"You are right, Madame Allard. He is not a common man," Treville replied.

"The boys said they would care for him," she continued, "and I eventually went to my bed. Apparently, he took worse during the night and Gerard gave him more of the draught. He was peaceful then, Gerard said."

"It started again as soon as he woke," she went on. "Such pain. I could not bear the look in his eyes."

"I gave him more of the draught, and then I went to the market. It was there I heard one of the Musketeers was missing."

"When I got back, he was still asleep. He did not look like a Musketeer. His only possession was the locket the boys found. So Jorge set off to the Garrison to see what he could find out."

Gerard took up his brother's tale then, pale and eyes downcast.

"A stable boy gave Jorge a description," he said. "He said the Musketeers were going to kill whoever had him."

Aramis sighed. Porthos had been quite vocal on the matter.

"We took care of him that night. By then though, he was needing the draught."

"So we dosed him up throughout the night and brought him back, real early.

"But he'd had enough, Gerard!" Linette said, having heard the full story and suddenly realising how liberal her boys had been with her powerful pain draught. "He is not Papa!"

"He was in pain!" Gerard cried, pulling away from her. "Just like Papa."

"We laid him in the archway," Gerard continued, looking defiant now, "against the wall so he wouldn't get trampled."

"You left him?!" Linette whispered, staring at her eldest in disbelief.

"They would have arrested us, Maman! How could you survive without us?"

Linette cried then. Her poor, caring boys. Damaged more than she had thought by their father's pain.

"My husband died in pain," she said quietly. "I had no more pain draught. I had no money to buy the ingredients. I swore I would never let it happen again."

"It was well intentioned," Treville said.

"Your boys have just become averse to seeing someone in pain," Aramis said, taking her hand. "They have developed a blind spot too. Sometimes," he added, looking at Gerard, "a certain degree of pain serves a purpose; do not be afraid of it."

Gerard nodded.

Aramis turned back to Linette.

"Will you help us wake him?"

She looked gratefully at him, and nodded.

oOo

The stimulant Linette provided worked just the way she said.

Under her supervision, later that day, Aramis gave Athos half the liquid. It had the effect of bringing him up into a lighter sleep. That alone, made Aramis relax for the first time in days. The following morning, the second dose did its job and Athos finally opened his eyes. His injury was a painful one though and he needed coaxing into taking shallow breaths. That, and the vicious headache Linette had promised kept him lying still in a darkened room for the rest of that day.

Eventually, she was persuaded to give them a bottle of her pain draught, as Athos needed to be eased off it, but even a small quantity eased his pain. Aramis was careful not to leave the bottle near him however.

One morning, a few weeks later, Captain Treville and Athos of the King's Musketeers paid Linette Allard and her boys a visit, and came to an arrangement with her.

When they left, she had a contract to provide her compound to the Garrison, whilst keeping her formula secret. Her boys had discovered a weakness in the Garrison's defences, pointing out its blind spot. They were rewarded with the offer of employment in the Garrison, as befitted their ages, for two days each a week, for as long as they wanted.

Finally, Linette received a pension Treville had arranged for her husband's military service, agreed by King Louis XVIII himself.

Madame Allard and her caring boys had needed a little luck in her life. The night an injured King's Musketeer came into their lives had turned out to be a blessing. For them, and for Athos.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	13. Sanctuary

**13\. SANCTUARY**

 _A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. Ecclesiastes 3:8_

 **Athos; d'Artagnan and Treville:**

He had stayed in the tavern to drink, sitting briefly with Constance and d'Artagnan until he took his leave. Finding out that your wife was now ensconced in the Palace as the King's mistress was enough to consider, without having to engage in polite conversation; however fond of the company you are.

At first, the revelation had hardly penetrated the armour he had built and rebuilt around himself since he had banished her from Paris. As he walked home alone though, that armour had started to crumble; falling from him like scales, leaving raw flesh beneath. The ensuing night had been long, as he paced around his room.

In the morning, at the Garrison and bereft of sleep, he had sought a place to gather his ragged thoughts. His feet took him, of their own volition, to the infirmary. He sought one of the small rooms at the back, which was used for privacy by those who needed it; caught twixt life and death.

A place of solace.

A sanctuary.

oOo

At first, he could not settle; but he had anticipated that and had brought along his whetstone and the sword his father had given him; his only remaining anchor to the past. Sitting on the edge of a barren wooden cot, he began to hone one edge of the blade. The long rhythmic strokes eventually calmed him and he became lost in the welcomed habit of old.

Later, d'Artagnan came, his boots echoing on the stone floor; forewarning of his arrival.

"The Captain is looking for you."

"Thank you."

The young man remained, hovering in the doorway.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Athos replied; looking up and taking in the anxious face, his hand still over the blade.

"For speaking within earshot last night," d'Artagnan replied. They had not spoken of it at the time, and it had obviously played on his mind since.

"Constance too," he added.

"You were not to know I was close-by. Either of you," Athos replied, before applying the whetstone once more.

"Now I see why you instruct head over heart," d'Artagan said quickly, as if he had been giving it thought since they had parted company.

"The heart is tender. It bruises easily," he went on. "But it can destroy you in an instant."

"It is a lesson well-learned," Athos replied softly, as he continued the swish of the whetstone.

"I cannot see what else you could have done. You did your duty," d'Artagnan finished; the image of Athos on his knees outside his burning home never far from his mind where Milady was concerned.

"And yet, she lives." Athos murmured.

"Sorry, you came here for peace," d'Artagnan said quickly, turning and making for the door. The quietness that descended on Athos at such times was always more disturbing to him than the rage. It felt almost an intrusion to witness it.

"Does such a thing exist?" he heard Athos murmur behind him.

The swish of stone on steel died away as, subdued, d'Artagnan went on his way.

oOo

"Is there a queue out there?" Athos growled, as he saw Treville in the doorway a short time later.

"There had better not be," the man replied. "d'Artagnan was very discreet."

Athos grunted, still bent on his task; the ring of the blade echoing around the small room.

Treville eyed his soldier. This would need delicate handling.

"What is it you seek, Athos?"

"Solitude."

Treville sighed.

"You've seen her?"

"Not yet."

"What in Hell's name is she doing?" Treville said quietly, rubbing his hand across his face.

Athos stopped and looked up, though not at Treville.

"Surviving," he replied; a hard edge to his voice.

Treville stepped into the room.

"It's the first time you have entered _this_ place voluntarily," he ventured.

"I am told that in here, no-one can hear you scream."

Treville huffed out a laugh.

"You want to scream?"

"No, because that would be unseemly."

"And not befitting a soldier," Treville added.

"Nor, a man," Athos replied.

He continued to hone the blade in long steady strokes, head bent over his task.

"I can see its advantages," Treville offered, looking around the room. "I will bear it in mind."

Athos suddenly stopped and shook his head.

"She plagues me," he bit out. "I cannot get away from her."

"Do you wish to?" Treville ventured. He had his doubts on the matter.

Athos did not answer, nor raise his head; the atmosphere in the small room becoming heavy. Treville noticed a slight tremor in his lieutenant's hand as he held the whetstone, before he tightened his grip, knuckles white, and continued.

"She won't find you in here," Treville added lightly, though inwardly cursing the woman.

"No, I don't suppose she will," Athos replied, stopping midway through a stroke with a world-weary sigh.

Treville watched him, before continuing to draw Athos out;

"Do you think she will manage this new role of hers?"

"She is an accomplished liar," Athos replied instantly, as if he had been waiting for the question, or had at least considered it during the long hours of his ill-spent night. "And the King flourishes on flattery."

He lifted his head then and stared into space.

"She will excel in it," he added with quiet conviction. "He has taken a viper to his bosom."

"Is he in danger?" Treville said quickly, nerves prickling.

Athos sighed again.

"She saved his life, and that of d'Artagnan. She did not have to do that."

"Vipers are unpredictable. Is the King in danger _now_?" Treville pressed.

"I do not know!" Athos replied, exasperated; just wanting to be left alone.

He softened then, lost in a memory.

"It was _Anne_ I knew and she was Spring-time," he replied, softly. " _Milady_ " is, as her name suggests ... "Winter."

His final word fell heavily between them.

"Cold, unpredictable and, perhaps, unyielding?" Treville said. "That will not work with Louis," he smiled.

"The winter thaws eventually. She has other strings to her bow." Athos answered.

Whetstone on steel commenced once more and Treville fell silent; mesmerised by the action.

oOo

"She killed Remy," Athos said, a few moments later; thinking on the danger once more.

"She seduced him into helping her escape the noose, and her fate."

"But _when_ did she arrange that?!" he continued; his voice growing louder as his thoughts began to unravel.

He looked at Treville with anguished eyes.

Treville waited, watching.

"I told her to make her peace with God! She was taken from the room while Thomas's body was still warm," he continued, his voice breaking. "She was locked up!

When did she make her arrangement with Remy? Seduction is no short conversation; unless she knew him that way already and a quick flash of her eyes was all that was needed!"

Treville still did not speak, not wishing to interrupt the tumult of words.

"Yet she swore she loved me," Athos said, barely audible.

The hand tightened once more on the whetstone and the action suddenly became frantic.

Treville waited.

"I have not been able to make sense of it," Athos continued; agitated now.

" _Athos,"_ Treville said quietly.

"After all these years, I _still_ cannot make sense of it."

But Treville's quiet entreaty must have registered, as he stilled once more, leaving the sword resting on his lap as he turned his face away from Treville.

Treville watched as his fingers traced along a crack in the wall next to the cot; relieved to see the slight tremor had gone.

"You did your duty, Athos. She tore your life to shreds in a moment," Treville replied. "She was not worthy of you."

Perhaps it was the way he said it, Treville would consider later. Perhaps it was his choice of words. Or perhaps he just chose the wrong moment to empathise; because Athos did not want empathy. He wanted _answers_ and he had taken himself to Hell and back since he left the tavern the previous evening; searching for his Anne.

His agitation was still too close to the surface.

In that moment, his resolve left him and the emotions he had held onto finally overpowered him, and the dam burst. Unseeing, unfocussed, undone, he threw his sword aside and surged up, pushing into Treville; the only catalyst for his anger.

Athos roared.

" _She was my life!"_

The full force of Athos's loss of control was daunting.

However, Treville knew how to endure a violent storm.

He withstood the glare; meeting like with like.

He withstood the hand on his chest that was pushing him against the wall; he did not respond.

 _For only that woman could unravel Athos so._

The room ceased to be as the moment seemed to freeze.

Treville knew his man, but he would not take a bet on which way this would go. Striking an officer was a grave offence. Even with no witnesses, neither man would ignore the consequences. Their sense of honour would not allow it.

Treville watched the warring emotions cross Athos's face, inches from his own; their harsh breathing in sync now.

Athos stared into his Captain's steel blue eyes; searching ... _searching ..._

And finally ... finding.

Gradually, the furious face in front of Treville changed; softened.

Treville slowed his breathing, and gradually, Athos's breathing followed until they were in sync once more.

"Peace, Athos," Treville said quietly.

 _Peace._

Treville watched his lieutenant's shoulders ease, and then sag.

Athos took an unsteady step back, coming back to himself - seeing Treville as if for the first time.

Treville reached out and put his hand briefly on his lieutenant's shoulder.

The man was spent, but he needed purpose. Now was not the time to go easy on him.

"Do you need more time?" Treville asked firmly, his eyes drifting to the sword abandoned on the bed.

His meaning was clear. Time to continue sharpening the sword; the time it would take to deal with the fall-out of the situation with Milady would take much longer. He would not enquire about that until much later.

Athos's eyes followed his.

"No," Athos replied quietly. "I believe I have brought it back to the best that I can get it, at this time. And serviceable once more."

"I am glad to hear it," Treville said. "Given its worth."

Treville walked to the window and stared into the courtyard beyond. Seeing nothing amiss, he turned.

"It seems you are right. We have not been heard."

Athos straightened his jacket, and then his shoulders.

"I have a missive that needs to be delivered," Treville was saying.

"Where to?" Athos asked, as the world slowly straightened around them.

"The Palace."

There was an unspoken moment between them at the implication.

"What do I do?" Athos whispered; suddenly lost.

"You do what you have always done."

Athos looked at him.

"You meet your challenges with dignity. You pick yourself up after every slip; every fall. You do your duty and protect your King. As you have always done," Treville said firmly, reaching out a hand and gripping his shoulder once more.

"And do not forget, Athos, not for one moment, that you have comrades and friends here. I imagine, in that, that you _do_ have a queue."

Athos dipped his head.

"My office; five minutes," he said. "That missive won't deliver itself."

"Yes, Captain," Athos replied.

"Oh, and Athos ..."

Athos raised an eyebrow.

"No matter what has gone before; cherish the memories that brought you joy, son."

Treville held his gaze and then nodded once, before turning and leaving him alone. Athos crossed to the window and watched him make his way back to his office.

"Yes, Captain," he whispered.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	14. Just A Room

**JUST A ROOM**

Is it just a room?

Just what _does_ the infirmary mean to the soldiers of the Garrison?

oOo

It was inevitable that, when men lived in such close proximity, if sickness occurred, it would spread.

It was inevitable that, when blades and muskets were used, injuries would occur.

It was inevitable that at some point, every soldier would cross the threshold of the infirmary.

Words such as "chaos," "compassion," and "fear," came easily to mind when thinking about the infirmary.

There was a word that could be applied in the case of the stable boy who had been crushed in one of the stalls by the horse he was moving.

He had only been working there for a few weeks. Hardly enough time to remember his name; but Aramis would not forget the boy's face as he held his hand and whispered prayers as he passed. He had not been able to ease his terror. For _that_ was the word.

The boy had not been the first and he would not be the last to which that word would be applied within those walls.

Aramis had come to realise that some things could not be changed and some people could not be saved. He had studied Dr Lemay's quiet acceptance of such tragedies, realising that all that could be done _would_ be done and if the Lord wished a different outcome, they had no right to argue.

Aramis accepted that. Most of the time.

It was inevitable that men would bond within these walls.

Athos and Porthos had done just that, brought back by cart from a mission early on in their acquaintance; both protesting vehemently about having to ride, yet both unable to walk into the infirmary of their own volition. They had walked out as brothers.

It was a fact that time spent within these walls would inevitably affect a man.

Some, like Athos, would do anything to avoid residency.

Others, like Porthos, would take it on the chin; perhaps seeing is as compensation for being a Musketeer.

Some, like d'Artagnan, had yet to have the experience and had been fearful; eyeing the large wooden scarred table in the surgeon's room with a sense of foreboding.

It was inevitable that men would die within these walls.

It was a room that could be mellow and restful when lit by candlelight.

Sometimes it promised renewal when bathed in sunlight.

Sometimes, darkness and deep shadows told another story.

As a room, it was dressed simply;

Dark wooden shutters and flagstone floors.

Black iron candle sconces nailed onto whitewashed walls.

Unadorned wooden cots. Straw-filled mattresses; sometimes down, sometimes horse-hair.

Once-cream linen sheets now bleached white from boiling and the heat of a drying sun. Rolls of bandages that have shared the same fate.

Dark wool blankets, both old and new; patched and pulled by curling fingers, twisting. Frantic.

Metal instruments that struck fear in the hearts of those who gazed at them; often locked away until needed. Often not seen by those needing the most fearful-looking of them.

But, as a room, it was anything but simple.

It was a room that smelled of lavender, chamomile, oil of cloves and whatever Serge served up at mealtimes;

Of woodsmoke and ash;

Sweat and soap; not always in equal measure.

Fear had its own smell; as did death.

And, as wounds were cauterised by red hot metal, so did burning flesh.

There was sometimes laughter within these walls. Occasionally, songs were sung; both bawdy that bounced off the walls and religious that uplifted and caressed. Other times, laments and complaints could be heard.

Often, there were tears - for Musketeers were brothers, who wept in relief and in grief.

Within these walls, hands were held;

Sometimes lightly; so as not to disturb. Sometimes tightly; so as not to let go.

It could seem like a small room when sheltering a dozen men; one man alone here could feel swallowed whole as if floundering within the belly of a great white whale.

This room could be noisy; a cacophony of human voice.

Sometimes, it was quiet, save for the murmurs of those caring and those sharing; and those lost for a time while tended to - or brought back with sudden force or quiet breath.

It was inevitable that prayers were uttered in hushed tones here, whether desired or not. And where laughter could be abruptly cut off, in deference to those who could not share in such humour.

Men were carried in here, and carried out. It was inevitable.

This room was part of their Garrison; a part of their lives. For some, the last room they would see.

Some, like Athos, never wishing to see it again – until the next time.

For Aramis, it was a workplace; although he had had his fair share of the other experiences this place had to offer.

For Porthos, it was a place he had never had growing up; having to manage his own injuries and sickness and those of his friends and sadly, his mother.

For d'Artagnan, when he had eventually been admitted, it was a place where he had experienced the daily love and care of his brothers.

For Treville, it was one of the first rooms he had insisted upon. He had paced this room many times, moving from bed to bed. He had held many a hand and walked with them when they were taken from it for the last time.

He had ushered malingers out; and ordered others to stay.

This was a room that often assaulted the senses.

A room that also soothed and pacified.

A room that was both welcomed and shunned.

A place of solace and a place of dread.

No-one was unaffected by being in this room, whether as a patient, a brother or as a healer.

The threshold bore witness.

It was often approached and crossed with caution; some not wanting to pass through to the uncertainty beyond. Crossing in hope and leaving in relief, or in despair. The threshold to this room was formidable.

It was inevitable that injuries would occur; horses kicked, sparring blades bit; bones fractured and flesh was rent by musket ball and steel.

All the while, the infirmary formed the backdrop of their lives.

The two rooms at the back are eyed with suspicion, as men who go there often do not return. Yet, even those rooms can bring comfort to those like Athos, who does not care to share his suffering. Others, like Porthos, are easily bored in those rooms and prefer company more than privacy and a chance to encourage those who may otherwise fail to thrive.

Sometimes the infirmary was not used for days, and if they were lucky, weeks. Sometimes, the opposite.

It was inevitable that the room would feel different, depending on who was installed within its walls.

That the ceiling would seem too low or the walls too close. That the air would feel too heavy, or too thin.

Men who were not used to feeling emotions did not fare well here, for emotions ran high and deep. Men could be cursing one minute, and beseeching the next.

This was a place of leeches and maggots; applied in good faith.

It was harsh and it was tender.

Men called for their mothers in this room.

Many, for their God.

Some called for wives and lovers or whores.

Some for all three.

It was an adaptable room. Sheets could be hung from hooks in the ceiling and draped around the wooden cots to give privacy. For even though they were soldiers and had long since accepted that privacy for intimate needs was a wishful concept, efforts would be made in this room.

In this room they bonded, they supported, they said their good-byes. This was where they raved and where they cried.

There was great bravery in this room, and great sadness.

Within these walls there was humour and heartbreak, healing and hope.

This was their infirmary.

This was more than just a room.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More Talks soon.


	15. Bad Cereal

**15\. BAD CEREAL**

 **Aramis and Serge:**

Following on from "If These Walls Could Talk (2)"; Aramis seeks out Serge.

oOo

"My apologies, Serge," Aramis said quietly, as he made his way through the kitchen door. "I did not mean to stir up bad memories about the grain incident."

Aramis had sought Serge out a week or two after they had cleaned the Infirmary. He had meant to talk to him earlier, but circumstances had now allowed; Athos had disappeared and then once recovered, and with a fractured breastbone, it had taken their time and energy to untangle the circumstances and get him back on his feet again.

Aramis was now on his way to help Porthos construct a wooden walkway around the turret of the perimeter wall, to the right of the archway. Apparently it held a "blind spot" and needed swiftly rectifying.

The old man huffed; pulling himself up and shuffling across to his bread oven.

Serge was sometimes mistaken for a lugubrious man. He kept himself to himself and ran a tight kitchen, speaking when spoken too. He could be quick to chide those in his employ, in order to get a good job done. But beneath the doleful exterior, he was thoughtful and had a kindly heart. Lately though, Aramis could see that his thoughts had been transported back to that time he had inadvertently recently reminded him of.

"All in the past," Serge had muttered. Aramis though, had seen the tremble in his hands and knew that those particular memories had not been laid to rest.

"You spend your life caring for us, old friend," Aramis said, taking the trays from him and putting them aside. Perhaps you need a little care too, sometimes."

"Get away with you," the old man answered gruffly.

However, he allowed Aramis to gently push him down onto a nearby bench.

"S'my job," Serge said, gruffly; staring at the tray of steaming bread Aramis had just relieved him of.

"It's more than that," Aramis replied gently, sitting next to him.

Serge pulled his gaze away from the cooling loaves and cast his eyes to the floor.

"I thought you were all going to die," he finally said.

"But we did not," Aramis said quietly, knowing that the veteran would not allow too much "molly coddling" and he only had a short time to help before he was brusquely brushed off.

"The grain 'adn't been cleaned properly," Serge muttered, still staring at the floor, lost once more in his memories.

They knew now that it had been the fault of how the grain had been managed before storage, not how it had been used. As the weather had turned colder every day, porridge and bread had been staples of their diet and Serge had had to find a new supplier to manage the increased demand.

Serge," Aramis said, "The Garrison was not the only ones affected. The trader was cutting corners."

Serge sniffed.

"I should 'ave washed it," he muttered.

"Is that your normal practise?"

"No. Never had any trouble before."

"And the grain was impounded; the purveyor was arrested."

"Should 'ave washed it," Serge persisted, truculently.

"It was you who discovered the cause and raised the alarm. If not for that, it could have been a lot worse, my friend."

oOo

As that day had worn on, it had become obvious who had ingested the bad cereal.

Those who had left early on missions had packed only dried goods, cheese and fruit and would be alright. d'Artagnan had eaten only an apple that morning, eager to get to the training yard to practise with his mentor. Athos had eaten half a bowl of porridge and then pushed it toward Porthos, who had already eaten his and was looking for more. However, Athos had snagged some bread and cheese, initially to give to d'Artagnan, but the young man had waved it away, brandishing his sword and giving "come on" hand gestures. Athos had made a show of slowly eating the bread, to teach his protégé a lesson in patience.

"That lesson nearly cost 'im his life," Serge muttered, banging a saucepan down. "Then _you_ joined them, and finished the rest of it," he pointed at Aramis. Aramis looked away; he would succumb later, found by d'Artagnan folded over the table in the yard and helped to the infirmary.

Treville had barked at Serge and the old man had put his head down, not wanting his Captain to see his tears. Treville had mellowed when young Jacques , the young kitchen-hand, had collapsed at his feet. The Captain had scooped him up and carried him across the yard and once alone, Serge had realised the source of the illness, having seen everything that Jacques had eaten - being as the lad had been confined to the kitchens from early morning until mid afternoon when the illness began to manifest itself.

Later, d'Artagnan and some of those who had escaped the illness loaded the sacks of bad cereal onto carts to take to the Seine where it was dumped; sinking to the bottom of the murky water, accompanied by a litany of curses from d'Artagnan.

"It got worse," Serge muttered, looking down, pained by the memories Aramis was teasing from him.

Treville, who had been at the palace when breakfast was served and had therefore escaped the infection, returned there later to give his report to the King.

Louis had ordered the trader's main grain store to be raided and then, the call came to burn it to the ground. Put out of business, the unscrupulous trader tried to flee Paris, but, in a good day's work, the Red Guard had hunted him down and brought him back to face his Monarch. Treville had wondered if the action would have been so speedy if it had only involved lowly Parisians and not his own elite regiment. He liked to think so. Ten residents in the local vicinity had died; stomachs and limbs swollen and lungs overcome.

Treville had returned from the Palace with a royal surgeon, but little could be done. The infection would run its course.

Sheets were hung around the beds of those affected and the long night wore on as they dragged themselves from bed to bucket and back, if they could accomplish that simple task at all.

"Get these windows open," Treville had shouted, "Let's get some air in here."

He ordered all healthy men to help, and soon, linen was being carried out and floors were being swabbed. The surgeon made up a charcoal mixture, to be administered to every sick man.

A candle had burned in Treville's office throughout that first night and into the dawn, as the Captain sought ways to cope with such a swift decimation of his regiment.

If the night did not go his way, there would be no letters to write to grieving relatives for his three best men. Athos, Aramis and Porthos were rootless, by their own design. Athos had forsaken his ancestral home and lands, casting himself adrift on his grief. Aramis's chaotic upbringing had led to his quixotic nature but no-one waited for him, or lit candles in windows. Porthos's roots lay in a dark corner of Paris which had nurtured him in its own way, but which he had outgrown. Even d'Artagnan, brought to the Garrison by bereavement and anger, was adrift from the loving anchor of family. There would be no families to which a final parchment written in Treville's careful hand would be delivered, telling of bravery and honour, and ultimately, sadness and regret.

But they had each other, and tonight, they were in each other's company. Should the worst happen, it would be d'Artagnan left behind to grieve for his new family. His anger and youthful emotions had been tempered over recent months by a mentor who's heart was true but guarded; though less so of late. They had been good for each other in that respect.

There would be no letters to write for them, but Treville's unspoken words ran deep in his heart, and he would ensure that d'Artagnan would find roots in the Garrison, as they had done.

"Worst day of my life," Serge was saying now, as he raised rheumy eyes to Aramis. "And I've had my fair share of rotten days."

"But you rolled up your sleeves, my friend, and your help was much appreciated."

"It was all I could do wasn't it? Been around enough sickness to know one end of a sickbed from another," the old man grunted.

Jacques was the one who had come the closest to death, with no fat on his bones and at his young age, his constitution was not up to the rigours of the infection. It was to his bed that Serge returned, again and again and it was Serge who pulled the boy through; though he would hear nothing of it.

Athos had lain watching Porthos, feeling the weight of guilt that he had handed his contaminated food across to him. Soon though, he was not aware enough to childe himself further.

During the hours after dawn, Treville moved from man to man.

Passing Athos's bed, his heart seized in his chest as he saw glazed eyes staring. Approaching quietly, he lifted a limp hand, only to take a step back as a ragged breath was drawn. Sinking down onto a nearby chair, Treville took a cloth and dropped it into lukewarm water. Turning in disgust, he yelled over his shoulder:

"Fresh cold water over here! Now!"

Quickly supplied, he ordered all bowls to be replenished and set about organising folded wet clothes to be placed on his soldier's foreheads and bodies.

After one of the longest nights of their lives, Treville and Serge both surveyed their men.

Once the brutality of the infection had passed, men were left lying in sweat-soaked sheets in delirium.

Athos lay on his side in a tangle of sheets, his hand covering his face, hair damp and unruly. Porthos, on his front, his arm over the edge of the low cot, knuckles trailing on the flagstone floor. Aramis lay on his back, one arm flung over his head, the other across his chest, fingers curled tightly in the sheet.

Moving along, others lay in similar disarray. Treville leaned briefly over every one of them, saying a few words to each man, whether they heard or not. Reaching Jacques, Serge joined him.

"He looks better," Treville said, patting Serge's shoulder.

"He'd better be. Boys like 'im are 'ard to find. Can't be doing with trainin' another one up," Serge replied. "Though he has a mind to work with the horses," he added, peering at his Captain.

"That can be arranged. Whatever he wants," Treville murmured, moving away.

Turning back, Treville looked at Serge.

"You do know this was not your fault?" he said holding the old man's gaze.

But the old man just sniffed and turned away.

Treville walked to the end of the room, past the rest of his men, mostly quiet now, before returning to the old veteran in the corner, hunched over once more in the chair he had sat in for several hours now, not moving from the boy's side.

"Serge," he said gently, "time to rest now."

Serge looked up with bleary eyes.

"Is it over?" he croaked, the toll it had taken on him all too obvious.

"I believe the worst of it is," his Captain replied. "They are all still with us."

Serge slowly stood, joints cracking, and Treville reached out to put a steadying hand under his elbow as the old soldier did his best to straighten his spine. Earlier, he had found his way to the Captain's office and attempted to give his resignation, but Treville would have none of it;

 _"I have had reports that some of the poorest people have died. Grain was their mainstay - bread, the only food they had. They had been using that grain for days. You have always maintained a varied stock of food for my regiment. Cheese, meat, eggs – our men did not consume as much of the cereal as they otherwise may have._ _It was you who saved lives here with your quick thinking, Serge."_

"You have done your duty," Treville was saying firmly now. "Off to your bed now. Sleep."

Serge opened his mouth to argue, but the look the Captain's face stopped him, and with a quick straightening of Jacques blanket, he limped away.

Aramis was watching him.

"You too soldier."

oOo

Back in the present, Aramis smiled.

"The Captain was right, Serge. I am sorry I brought these bad memories back to you. I had no idea you still harboured these feelings."

"You three, and the boy," Serge said, "Can't imagine this place without you."

Jacques was now the stable boy, and was shaping up to be one of their best. And Serge had a new kitchen hand.

"He proved you wrong," Aramis said, nodding at the new boy, who was busy shaping dough and loading it into the oven. "He's a fast learner."

They sat watching the boy for a while, before Aramis reached forward and snagged a cooling loaf from the tray in front of them.

"He's a good lad," Serge nodded in agreement.

At that, d'Artagnan came bursting in.

"So's this one," the old man huffed.

"Captain wants us," d'Artagnan said breathlessly. "Three day mission to Lille."

"What about the blind spot?" Aramis asked, as Porthos was expecting him up on the wall.

"Captain's assigned some of the others to that," d'Artagnan said, grinning, bouncing from one foot to the other; eager to be off.

"Better get you some supplies then," Serge said, the twinkle back in his eye as he looked at Aramis.

"Make sure you include some of this fine bread," Aramis laughed, breathing in the aroma of the cooling bread.

"And you," Aramis said quietly, standing and shoving the loaf under his arm, "Are a good man, Serge."

He put his hat firmly on his head, looking down at him.

"We could never find another like you, my friend."

Finally, Serge smiled shyly, before rising slowly from the bench and wiping his hands on his apron.

"Get away with you," he huffed out, as he shuffled off, back to his ovens.

Aramis smiled as he watched him go.

Reassurances accepted it seemed, and molly-coddling over.

oOo

Thanks for reading! I hope those of you who wanted to know this story enjoyed it. More soon.


	16. Loyalty, Above All

**16\. "LOYALTY, ABOVE ALL OTHER VIRTUES"**

 _ **Loyalty: A strong feeling of support or allegiance.**_

 _These words are spoken by Louis to d'Artagnan as he commissions him._

For Mountain Cat (I hope this scratches an itch)

 **Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan, Treville and Louis XIII:**

oOo

Six months after d'Artagnan had stormed into the Garrison seeking revenge for the death of his father, Louis XIII decided to pay his relatively new Regiment a visit.

The logistics had given its Captain, Jean Treville, sleepless nights.

Precautions were taken.

And yet, all those precautions could not stop two determined men.

oOo

They came in as simple tradesmen that morning; three men, in total. Two sat in the back of the cart with the sacks of root vegetables and one drove the team of two horses.

There had been a problem with one of the horse's hooves and two of the men had taken it into the stables to be looked at. Later, the cart had been unloaded and then driven off through the archway and away; but no-one had apparently paid any attention to how many men accompanied it out. Only one, it seemed, when they later ran through the events of the day. Treville would have his guards on extra duty for weeks, if he decided to keep them in post at all.

Initially, all had gone well. The King seemed to have enjoyed his tour of the Garrison and was about to leave when a shout went up, followed by the crack of a pistol and one of Louis's entourage staggered back, hit in the arm and screaming.

All hell then broke loose.

The two would-be assassins split up, one skirting around the back of the Royal party and the other to the stack of barrels in front of the mess.

Porthos took off in hot pursuit of the first, pulling and pushing several well-dressed persons aside before firing at the retreating figure. The ball slammed the man violently into the wall, where he crumpled to the ground.

Musketeers were herding the royal group together, as Athos searched wildly for the other assassin, catching sight of him to the left of the stables. Reaching forward, he put his body between him and the King and pulled Louis with him under the wooden stairs that led to Treville's office.

Louis had become pliant, allowing himself to be manhandled; no doubt revisiting memories of his father's assassination when he was a boy. Athos was standing in front of him now, completely shielding him as he walked him back against the wall, where he placed a gloved hand on each side of his Sovereign's head.

"Be still, Majesty," he murmured, locking eyes with his King.

Louis, eyes huge and mouth slack, managed to nod agreement; despite the shakes that now wracked his body.

He continued to stare into the eyes of the calm Musketeer in front of him, who was effectively forming a protective cage around him. The bullet that suddenly slammed into Athos's shoulder did not break that eye contact, but it made Louis cower as the force pushed the Musketeer toward him. But Athos locked his arms, and did not touch Louis any further than he already was.

"Stay, Majesty, it is not safe yet," Athos managed to voice a polite instruction, for he could not order his King.

Sure enough, another volley of shots was released behind them, and Louis jumped.

"Still, Sire," the calm voice came one last time.

Athos trusted the men at his back to do their job, Louis saw. Even though he could not see them, he was doing his own job. It could have been any one of his Musketeers that shielded him, but, as his memory stirred, Louis was surprised that it was _this_ man.

oOo

Treville was bellowing in the courtyard, as Musketeers ran around; one assailant, badly wounded, but alive was now in custody, guarded by d'Artagnan and two other Musketeers. The other assailant lay dead on the yard earth, in front of the stables; blood pooling around him.

Some semblance of quiet descended then.

Aramis and Porthos regrouped, looking around for Athos and seeing him guarding the King.

"Look at 'is shoulder," Porthos said quietly, as he pulled Aramis over toward the two still men, standing beneath the stairs.

Aramis placed a gentle hand on Athos's arm, rigid against the wall, pinning the King between that arm and his right, equally rigid.

"Sire, are you alright?" Aramis asked softly, but the King's eyes were locked onto Athos's and he did not answer.

Aramis nodded to Porthos.

Porthos moved around to Athos's back, sliding his arm around his waist.

"S'alright, Athos, it's over. You can let 'is Majesty go now," he whispered into his ear.

At first nothing happened.

Then, after a few moments and with supreme effort, Athos's right arm dropped away. However, his legs were still rigid; his knees locked. Careful of the wound in his shoulder, Porthos gently bent his own knees, connecting with the back of Athos's and he pushed gently. Athos's knees unlocked and he went down bonelessly without a sound, his left arm caught by Aramis, as they both pulled him gently away.

Louis himself was also rigid, his back against the wall; having been locked within the cage that Athos's arms and body had made around him.

Treville was suddenly there.

"Sire, are you well?!"

Louis finally broke his horrified gaze from the prone man on the floor, cradled by the other two who had liberated him.

Looking at Treville, whose words he finally processed, he looked around, before straightening and stepping away.

"Yes," he said, drawing out a fine white linen handkerchief and putting it over his mouth, before his regal persona fell into place once more.

"Yes, Captain Treville."

Treville waved two musketeers toward him, one being d'Artagnan.

"Take six men and escort his Majesty and his party back to the Palace."

And with that, Louis was swept away.

"He didn't even ask if he was alright," Porthos said as they carried an unconscious Athos into the infirmary.

"His is the King," Aramis ground out, his concentration otherwise engaged.

"An' we are his regiment!"

"Enough," Treville said, suddenly behind them. "This is a new experience for his Majesty. The main thing is he is safe."

Porthos glared at him.

"Is it?!"

"Of course it is!" Treville shouted. "And if you think differently, you have no place in the Musketeers!"

"It is true, mon ami," Aramis said quietly, as they crossed the threshold. "And our brother would tell you the same. If he could."

oOo

The Queen had said they were a band of loyal men.

Louis had been unsettled since his return to the Louvre, not just because of the attempt on his life, but by the manner in which he was saved. The Queen could see in the hearts of men more readily than he, he had come to realise.

 _Loyalty, above all other virtues._

 _Where had he taken that maxim from?_

 _Who had drummed that into him? And when? After his father had been assassinated? He was only nine years old, lost; surrounded by sycophants and those who would use him for political gain._

 _Why did loyalty mean so much to him now, as a man; as a King?_

 _How did he know when he was being shown loyalty? Was he merely being humoured?_

" _Yes, Sire. Of course, Sire. By your leave, Sire."_

He heard that on a daily basis.

He had doubted all. Sometimes, he had even doubted his wife, yet she had shown him nothing but tenderness and friendship.

Was "loyalty" trust? Did someone have to actually prove they were loyal, before they were believed and trusted or was it enough for him to see them bow and follow his orders?

Finally, three days later, he called the Musketeer Aramis to the Palace to escort him, in disguise and under cover of darkness back to the Garrison to see the Captain of his Musketeers.

Once safely in Treville's office, and in the company also of Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan, the King quietly unburdened himself.

"I have thought long on it. The Cardinal was being particularly intransigent that morning, Captain, as I remember," he said softly, stealing a contrite look at Treville, who he knew, was well aware of Richelieu's ways.

Richelieu's insistence that morning that the King's power was absolute had also led Louis to shut down any entreaty that Treville had attempted to make on his man's behalf. Treville, who had also been his faithful confidante at all times. And so, he had condemned a man to the firing squad in the blink of an eye.

"I wish to see the Musketeer, Athos," Louis said quietly, looking at them all.

Treville had nodded to his King, and to his men.

Aramis bowed and went ahead to the Infirmary, gently waking Athos to tell him he had a visitor.

Seeing that it was nightfall, Athos looked confused.

Aramis bulked up his pillows and raised him a little. Straightening his sheets, he placed a gentle hand on his brother's face;

"Be on your best behaviour now," he whispered.

"Always," Athos whispered, as his eyes slid shut.

"And stay awake."

"Alright," he sighed, "But I cannot guarantee for how long."

"Not long, my friend," Aramis replied, holding Athos's puzzled gaze.

A movement caught his attention and Athos's eyes strayed to the doorway as someone stepped across the threshold.

Porthos, d'Artagnan and Captain Treville all came into the room, and then parted to allow a cloaked figure to pass in front of them.

The cloaked figure reached up and drew down his hood.

The King himself.

Athos's eyes flicked to Treville who raised his hand slightly, an order to be still, and Athos did so; although he doubted he could have moved if he had wanted to.

Aramis squeezed Athos's good shoulder and stepped back to join Porthos, d'Artagnan and their Captain. Louis moved to Athos's side.

"Musketeer Athos, I am glad to see you looking a little better," he said.

"Your Majesty," Athos managed, looking a little embarrassed. "My apologies; I cannot rise."

Louis looked around at Treville, who nodded for him to carry on. "No, please, do not trouble yourself," Louis continued. "Protocol be damned," he smiled widely, before shutting it down and growing serious.

"What I have to say will not take long," Louis continued, sincerely. "And then, we will leave you to rest and recover."

Athos frowned.

"How can I help you, Sire?" he said.

"I am here to give you your King's sincere thanks. It was a very brave thing you did. This is a new Regiment, and I have not seen the like of what happened here. Every man played their part, but you, Musketeer, went above and beyond the call of duty. In truth, I need men like you, Athos."

Athos was confused.

" _You have them, Sire_."

It was evident to him and to every Musketeer in the Garrison. It seemed, though, that the King had only just realised it.

Louis stared, as realisation sank in.

"Of course I have," he answered softly.

Louis had never thought of his men as individuals. He had never properly looked into the eyes of one of them. He had never felt the protection manifest itself so viscerally, where a man such as this, whom he had condemned so easily, and without evidence, would offer his life in an instant.

Louis valued loyalty, and "this Athos", as he had so blithely called him as he condemned him that morning, had, two days ago, _shown_ him what true loyalty was. While others bent their knee and bowed and scraped and feigned loyalty, _this_ man embodied what his blue-cloaked elite guards were.

Here, in this room, was the manifestation of loyalty.

He knew then, that every one of his Musketeers would do the same.

Louis lifted his eyes and looked incredibly uncomfortable, but, as the dumb-struck men behind him bowed low, he gathered himself and said clearly to the man lying before him;

"Musketeer Athos, I owe you an apology ..."

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	17. Hide and Seek

**17\. HIDE AND SEEK**

 **All of them:**

"Does the lovely Madame C not 'ave a front door?" Porthos asked.

"It is not the front door that is the issue," Athos replied. "Aramis goes in through the front door, but not, necessarily, out of it," he added.

They had found Aramis sitting on a crate at the end of the street, rubbing his ankle.

"What 'appened to you?" Porthos laughed, sitting down next to him and waiting for the story. For there was sure to be one. They were outside Madame Charbonneau's house and there was always a story to be had where she was involved.

"Nothing," Aramis muttered, as he continued to rub his now-swelling ankle.

Athos looked up at the open window and rolled his eyes.

oOo

Between them, they managed to get a hobbling Aramis back to the Garrison. The sight had raised a few eyebrows, but a glare from Porthos and a stare from Athos had quelled any would-be jester from making a comment.

Once in the Infirmary, Aramis was hoisted unceremoniously up onto the table.

"Ow! Take care, it might be broken!"

"Doubt it, you would 'ave been makin' much more of a performance if it was," Porthos grunted, hunting for bandages with which to strap the offending limb.

Aramis lay down.

"Ah, but it was worth it, my friends!" he sighed happily; his hands behind his head.

Catching their eyes, he coughed.

Before he could give an explanation, Porthos looked out of the window, catching sight of a familiar figure in the yard.

"Quick, it's the Captain!"

Athos joined him at the window and emitted a low grunt.

"You had better hide, unless you have a very plausible explanation. Which I am sure you do not," he said, folding his arms and turning with a raised eyebrow to look at his friend, who was staring at them, aghast.

It had only been recently that Treville had caught Aramis and the lovely Madame Charbonneau in this very room; an embarrassment for all, apart from Madame C herself, who was a very confident young lady and used to getting her own way, it seemed. She had held her pretty tongue on that occasion, but they all doubted the same would be said if she came under Treville's dissatisfaction once more.

"Distract him!" Aramis cried, sliding off the table and leaning on the wall; one foot braced on the other.

"Leave me out of this," Athos said, as he elegantly left through the window.

Agape, and now on the verge of panic, Aramis looked at Porthos.

Porthos held a hand up.

"S'alright, I got this," he smiled, drawing himself up to his full height.

Porthos grabbed a roll of bandages and crossed to the door, throwing it open, just as Treville approached.

His large frame filled the doorway and Aramis took the opportunity to follow Athos's style of departure; only less elegantly.

Treville came to a stop in front of him, and the two eyed each other up. Treville's gaze went to Porthos's hand, now holding the roll of bandages.

"Where's Aramis?" the Captain asked.

oOo

Standing now with Porthos in the tack room adjoining the stables, Aramis peered out of the small window.

They had heard from a fellow Musketeer returning from patrol that a very well-dressed young woman was asking where the Musketeer Aramis was. She apparently wanted to visit in order to "ease his suffering."

The smirk on the returning Musketeer's face as he delivered his message was not lost on Aramis, who was beginning to realise that his relationship with said determined lady was getting a little out of hand.

"It's pouring!" he muttered, miserably.

"Thought you liked nature," Porthos said, hands on hips.

"I do. But not, necessarily, wet nature."

"Well, it's your choice, but the Cap's lookin' for you. And he won't want ta see her ransackin' the place tryin' to find ya."

"You're enjoying this," Aramis muttered, to which Porthos held up both hands in supplication, while desperately trying not to grin.

Aramis, it seemed, had little choice but to escape the Garrison entirely.

Ever the tactician, Porthos pulled his cloak from his saddlebag.

"I have a plan," he said.

oOo

"This is undignified!"

"Says the man who skitters across women's rooftops."

Aramis stood his ground for a few moments, before realising he had little choice.

"You 'ave little choice. Just do it," Porthos said, reading his thoughts.

So, with a sigh, Aramis jumped on Porthos's back and wrapped his arms around his neck and his legs around his hips; knees hugging tightly. Porthos grunted and threw his cloak around his shoulders and over Aramis. He clapped his large hat on his head, and, for all the world, Aramis had disappeared beneath the two.

"Now," Porthos said quietly, "We just 'ave to get to Athos's rooms on the Rue Ferou without anyone lookin' too closely."

"Athos's rooms?" came a muffled response from his back. "But he didn't want anything to do with this!"

Porthos slipped a bottle of brandy out from under his cloak.

"He'll want somethin' to do with this," he chuckled.

"Lead on my dear man," Aramis said, and the bulky figure began to move across the yard and out through the archway.

Just as an elegantyoung lady walked up, dressed in a cloak, hood shielding her pretty hair from the rain and holding what looked like a tureen of soup.

Recognising Porthos, she stepped in front of him.

"I am bringing Aramis his favourite," she smiled.

"You've 'ad a wasted journey," Porthos replied, unmoved by her pretty white teeth. "You've just missed 'im."

"How can that be? The poor man cannot walk!"

"Captain wasn't 'avin any of it. Sent 'im on a mission."

"Then I will have a word with that man!" she cried, indignantly.

"Captain's gone too." Porthos replied quickly, beginning to feel the weight of his friend hanging on his back.

"Then I shall ask the surly one."

"Athos went too," Porthos said, needing no clues as to whom she was referring.

"Well, who IS in charge?" she demanded; her pretty lips forming a pout.

Porthos had to think on his feet.

"d'Artagnan."

"The young one! Is that wise?" she asked, her pretty eyebrows rising.

Porthos had a mind to end the conversation, but he'd never hit a woman before.

"Got to start somewhere," he grunted, trying to move around her without her catching sight of the hump on his back. He could feel Aramis silently laughing now, and was beginning to wonder whether this was going to work. Maybe he should just let him fall at her feet. She would like that.

However, Madame had had enough and with a pretty huff, she turned and flounced off, taking her tureen with her. It could have been worse, he thought; she could have thrust the damn thing into his hands.

"All clear," Porthos growled,and as he did, he straightened up, causing Aramis to lose his grip and fall in the dirt.

"It ain't worth it mate," he said as he walked off.

"Where are you going?" Aramis cried, from his place in the wet mud; rain beginning to slick his hair.

Porthos merely waved the bottle of brandy in the air without turning around.

Aramis rose to his feet with difficulty and started to limp after him. Just then a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"If you can walk, soldier, I have need of you."

Turning, he saw Treville standing under cover of the archway, a shovel in his hand. Judging by the thunderous look on his face, he had obviously not only seen everything, but had realised he had been duped earlier.

"Stables?" Aramis asked lightly, as the rain dripped off his beard.

"Stables." Treville growled.

They could both hear the sound of Porthos's laughter as he disappeared down the street.

Treville thrust the shovel into Aramis's hands.

"And I'll deal with him later," Treville growled, watching an unsuspecting Porthos's retreating back.

God save him from lovelorn women and libertines.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	18. They Will Come For Me

This one's for Helen.

 **18\. THEY WILL COME FOR ME**

 **Athos:**

" _They will come for me_."

It had taken time to form the words.

All he saw was white.

In front of him. Above him. To the sides; although he could not turn his head to be certain of the latter.

Nothing permeated his thoughts apart from that one, certain fact;

" _They will come_."

It was those few words that he was finally able to force through his lips.

oOo

White.

Something white floated before his eyes, unwound from his head. Fingers traced his scalp and made him gasp. Then, _something_ _white_ was wrapped around his head once more.

There were people there; he could tell; but he heard nothing.

He vaguely remembered that someone had put stitches in his head. He could feel their tightness, amid the fire and agony.

He had tried to move their hands away from him.

" _Aramis will do that_ ," he had told them.

But they had persisted.

When he was lifted up, he had tried to struggle, but his body would not co-operate and the pain in his head flared aggressively; relentless.

" _Porthos will do it. Leave me,"_ he had whispered.

When it grew dark, he had tried to tell them that he must find d'Artagnan. The boy would be waiting for him.

When all he said fell on deaf ears, he told them again to leave him.

" _They will come."_

A recent memory stirred, just enough to further confuse; there was nothing before and nothing after.

He had been returning from a lone mission, still some way from Paris.

Unseated from his horse, he had fought. He remembered a deafening roar against his head as a musket ball was fired, to drive a fireball track along his scalp that in turn punched the air from his lungs.

Everything had whited out, and silence had descended.

oOo

Now, the white he had grown accustomed to gave way to grey.

Grey shapes hovered above him.

He reached out and grabbed at a hand but could not maintain his hold, nor see further to whom the hand belonged.

He could remember nothing but _their_ faces. The ones he knew so well. Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan. They would expect him back.

At first, he had not been able to speak. He could not form the words he heard in his head. He had no point of reference. He could not hear, apart from the roar of the musket, a recurring memory. He could not see properly, his vision blurred; apart from _white_ , he could see white and that word reverberated and became a comfort to him, as the darkness that followed did not.

Slowly, sounds came to him at intervals. He considered it was an echo, a memory of battle, for he well knew the sound of steel on steel and gunfire; both of which merged in the background of his awareness. Close, but far away. Loud enough to hear but nothing else filtered through thereafter.

The grey shapes hovered.

Hands, sometimes gentle, sometimes firm, would pull him this way and that, as he threw up everything he was fed, dispelling whatever strength he had. What torture was this?

The pain in his head that had ground him into the mattress when he first welcomed the white was little better but he had still protested at the vile stuff they dripped into his mouth.

He felt an urgency to tell them something;

" _Tell Aramis what you have given me. He will want to know,"_ he had whispered but the darkness was creeping in. Not the darkness that one would light a candle against, but a deeper oblivion.

As it approached, he felt a sudden change in them, as he was lifted and crushed; feeling another's chest rising and falling harshly against his cheek. A hand behind his head; holding him firm.

" _Tell them ..."_ he whispered ..." _I tried to wait."_

The arms around him tightened and he felt himself rocked, as if he were a child. Exhausted, he gave himself over to it; and then, to the darkness.

oOo

The white had parted then, and brilliant sunshine had bathed his face. He wondered if they would come then. The faces he saw were equally well known to him, but they no longer walked the earth and he felt himself sigh. He did not want to go with Thomas, who held out his hand.

" _They will come, Thomas,"_ he insisted as the yellow turned to black.

oOo

 _Cold_.

Why was he cold?

He should be hot. The fires of Hell were waiting. Why was he cold?

"Cold _._ "The word slipped from his lips, surprising him.

A blanket was pulled up, under his chin. A warm hand on his face. They were trying to help, he thought then. Perhaps he could tell them; give them a message for his brothers, who would be sorry to have missed his passing, perhaps.

Their ministrations had an urgency now. Perhaps he should tell them.

" _Tell them where you lay me,"_ he had said. _"They will want to know."_

Gunfire again; a little louder now.

The grey shapes urgently swirled around him.

More vile liquid passed his lips and he cursed, but could do nothing to make it stop.

Another black night; craving the white. Craving his own world; the one he knew - the faces he would see, if he could.

" _They will come,_ " he whispered to himself as his cold fingers tightened and twisted in the blanket.

When the white returned, the pain in his head was less and he felt a familiar sensation.

He is aware of his hand and the heavy warmth around it. Someone is holding his hand.

There is a hand on his chest.

He cannot turn his head, still wracked in pain at the very thought, but the grey shape swims in front of him as he looks up. He stares, willing his eyes to focus and slowly, it starts to take shape.

And there, behind, two more shapes lean forward.

"He's awake!" an eager voice says. _d'Artagnan_.

What is this?

" _Am I in Hell?"_ he gasps, and he hears (hears!) a low rumbling laugh. He knows it.

A deep, warm, _familiar_ voice replies;

"If you are, then we're all in trouble."

Slowly, the three grey shapes come together and he is looking at three pairs of brown eyes, peering worriedly at him.

Behind them, he sees familiar _white_ walls.

Above him, he sees a familiar white ceiling.

White.

A thumb swipes across his cheekbone, wiping away the moisture that gathers there.

Their voices flow over him now like sun-warmed water.

 _He recognises them._

oOo

They had been with him the whole time.

It was they who had tended him.

They, who had listened to his entreaties and had heard his confusion.

They, who had persisted.

 _They had him_.

"You came for me _,"_ he says.

Outside the infirmary, he hears the familiar sound of gunfire and the clash of steel in the courtyard, as the regiment goes about its day.

"Of course we did, my brother," Aramis says softly. "We brought you home and we have been with you all the time."

"Rest now, yeah?"

"We'll be here."

His pain eases as the darkness comes, but this time, it is kind.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	19. Head over Heart

I'd just like to say many thanks for your reviews and messages, and to those I cannot thank personally.

Meanwhile, back in the Infirmary ... for Athos and d'Artagnan, lessons work both ways.

 **19\. HEAD OVER HEART**

" _You can sacrifice and not love. But you cannot love and not sacrifice" – Kris Vallotton_

 **Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan:**

 **The Infirmary** :

"I told him, over and over, _head over heart_!" Athos said, as they sat next to d'Artagnan's still form.

d'Artagnan had taken a brutal swipe of a blade to his shoulder after pushing Athos away in the heat of a sword fight with thugs who had come out of nowhere. His sacrifice had effectively saved Athos from a worse fate.

 _You're dead._ The words he had uttered every time he had bested d'Artagnan; driving his point home, were returning to haunt him now.

In the aftermath of the fight earlier that day, Athos had truly believed his words had come true, until they were able to vanquish their assailants and move as one to their young friend, who was struggling to pull himself up and failing miserably. It had then been a traumatic journey back to the Garrison and Athos could not help but grow angrier with every league covered.

By the time they arrived at the Infirmary, d'Artagnan was immune to any reprimands. "Dead to the world," Aramis had said, making Athos flinch.

It was not a mortal wound, fortunately, but this would be his first experience in the infirmary; one that Athos had hoped he would not have for a considerable time.

"Head over heart will save his life every time," Athos continued, firm in his conviction, his head propped in his hands, which were unconsciously scrunching his hair.

Porthos had gone to report to Treville and to see what food he could muster for them, leaving Aramis and Athos to clean, stitch and settle their young friend for the night.

Aramis had watched Athos torture himself since he had put ten stitches in the slash across d'Artagnan's shoulder earlier in the evening.

He felt his brother's anger as it rolled off him, and Aramis was not sure whether it was d'Artagnan he was angry with or himself. It would be like him to blame himself for d'Artagnan's act and he was sure that Athos would double his efforts to rectify d'Artagnan's slip into what he would think of as risky, thoughtless behaviour.

"Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, brother, another's life seems more important than one's own," Aramis replied softly, moving to ensure d'Artagnan was comfortable and sleeping peacefully.

Athos looked up wearily through his tousled hair.

 _Not mine._

"Would _we_ not give our lives for the King?" Aramis ventured.

"Of course," Athos replied tersely. "We swore an oath. It is our duty."

"And we would also use our hearts in that," Aramis said.

Athos merely huffed, before pressing the heels of his hands into his tired eyes.

"We do not have to love a king to save his life," Athos ground out.

"But we love _France_ , brother," Aramis answered softly;

"With all our hearts," he added.

Aramis was well aware that Athos knew all this, but sometimes, in such circumstances, a reminder was needed to straighten tortured thoughts.

"Your teaching is sound, mon ami, but "head over heart" is not exclusive. Just because you guard _your_ heart so carefully, do not presume others can follow you without question. They may have other priorities."

Aramis leaned forward and spoke quietly;

"Do you think d'Artagnan only used his heart when he saved your life?"

Athos stood suddenly, overwhelmed by emotions he had not allowed himself to feel for years.

It had been easy for Athos to think it was another impulsive decision on d'Artagnan's part. Any more would undo him.

But Aramis was not finished driving his point firmly home.

"d'Artagnan _did_ use his head, my friend. He made a calculated decision, and in doing so, he saved your life."

Athos raised anguished eyes and searched Aramis's face.

Aramis smiled;

"Because he loves you with all his heart; _he used both_. Heart first, perhaps, but his _head_ very much drove his decision to take that risk." He tapped his fingers on his own head, for good measure.

There was silence for a long moment and Aramis thought that Athos would not answer. But, it turned out that Athos was considering.

His train of thought though, had apparently not been quite broken;

"Head over heart, Aramis," Athos persisted, weaker now; his voice wrecked.

"Head over heart is admirable, mon ami," Aramis replied, "And you taught it because you care for him, and want to protect him. But allow him to make decisions by consulting _both_ , now that your first lesson is learned well."

Aramis sat back and studied him.

"That way," he said quietly, "we will have you both with us a lot longer."

Athos raised his head.

It is said that the eyes are the window to one's soul. Aramis was sure of it as he looked into Athos's wide tortured eyes in that moment.

Aramis knew a broken heart when he saw one. Whatever had driven Athos to close off his own heart, he did not know. The fact he wanted to save others from making decisions on a purely emotional basis _was_ admirable. Athos was the best of men. However, at some point, his heart may thaw. One look at Porthos was proof enough that a large heart did not impede a fearsome fighting style nor court vulnerability. Aramis hoped that Athos would see that one day, as he loosened the bonds on his own aching heart.

Athos had instilled self-preservation into his young protégé. He had honed his skills and given him an insight that was second to none. If the time came for them all to step onto the battlefield together, d'Artagnan would be prepared. Athos would have no less.

Aramis reached out and lay his hand gently on Athos's arm.

"The dichotomy was always going to be challenged. He is young, but you have helped him to grow up. You have given him the ability to choose. Time to let go, my friend."

Athos sighed, and shook his head.

"I never got the chance to let go with Thomas," he said wearily. "He never really grew up. His heart would have always ruled his head. I doubt he would have listened to me."

"They are two different people, Athos. d'Artagnan is not Thomas. You have said so yourself; he is like you. Even if he does not quite know it yet."

"God help him."

Aramis laughed.

"You have given him a precious gift, Athos. You have given him the best of you – and the ability to use his head _and_ his heart; even if you did not intend it."

Athos turned and looked at d'Artagnan.

"And to know the difference; even if _you_ could not see it." Aramis finished.

"Then I am grateful to you for pointing it out," Athos said quietly, and Aramis's own heart eased.

Just then, Porthos came in carrying a large tray of food he had lovingly prepared for them. His hands full, he had obviously decided to hold the bread knife between his teeth; a somewhat fierce sight.

"And I am grateful to Porthos," Athos added, ruefully, "for showing me what that looks like."

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	20. An Unexpected Bond

**AN UNEXPECTED BOND**

 **Porthos and Athos:**

This is a story about how Porthos and Athos became brothers.

 **First Meeting:**

Athos had shown Porthos nothing but politeness and courtesy.

To Porthos though, who had spent his entire life absorbing barbed comments about his heritage, politeness often meant arrogance. He did not trust Athos, waiting for the articulated words that would put him in his place.

And waiting.

And waiting.

When Treville had first issued the order that would put them together on a short two-man mission, Porthos had watched Athos's face for signs of distain. When his face remained impassive, Porthos had waited for the familiar barbed comments; for the hierarchy to be established, with him at the lower end.

None were forthcoming.

When they rode out, he was prepared for Athos to take the lead position, but he did not; preferring, it seemed, to ride at his side. No barbed words came.

But no words in general.

Maybe this was it; Athos's way of keeping him down. No sneers, no obvious outward signs of superiority, just no communication, unless absolutely necessary.

To Porthos, that was far worse.

Two days in and he realised he was reading and obeying Athos's facial expressions. The realisation shocked him; the speed of it. Then, he grew angry. Athos seemed unconcerned, but that grew to wariness in the face of Porthos's sustained anger, and Porthos wondered what Athos would do to establish control when it came to setting up camp.

Athos gathered wood apparently.

It took Porthos completely by surprise.

Athos lit the fire.

When Porthos brought a brace of rabbits back to camp, Athos quietly reached for them and began to skin and gut them, while Porthos tended to the horses. Not a word was spoken. Not an order given. If anything, Athos kept his eyes down. And, although command radiated off him, no commands were given.

Later, Athos passed Porthos a plate of food, and received a heartfelt smile in return as he dug in. Athos ate little, his eyes roaming around the trees occasionally.

"That was good, thanks," Porthos said as he collected their plates. "Just what I needed."

"You're welcome," Athos replied, making eye contact briefly, before turning to poke at the fire.

Their mission was completed the following day and they turned their horses back toward Paris. Apart from their brief exchange the night before, Athos's reluctance to speak had made Porthos wary and neither of them had learned much about each other during the two day mission.

Until the ambush.

They had fought side by side, each in his own way.

Porthos's raw reactions, roaring clashes and seemingly out-of-control behaviour was at odds with Athos's control and quiet, but effective, engagement with the enemy.

Together, they triumphed, but not without cost.

Porthos had been briefly felled by four of their assailants, falling awkwardly onto rocks, which made him roar louder and wave his sword menacingly as he struggled to his feet.

Unable to help, due to his current engagement with three assailants himself, Athos was briefly distracted but before he could do anything, his knee was kicked viciously and his leg collapsed, taking him down. The three set upon him and it was all he could do to defend himself. He was aware of Porthos behind him, still bellowing and by the sound of the clash of steel, still fighting.

When the dust had settled, it was obvious that Porthos had broken ribs, and Athos was leaning against a tree, balanced on one leg with blood dripping from a cut across his chest. He could not remember receiving the wound, his main memory being the noise that Porthos made. He was formidable, but it was not a fighting style that Athos was accustomed to. Five of their attackers lay dead around the clearing.

"Two of 'em ran off," Porthos panted, in obvious pain.

"I am not surprised, the noise you were making."

"Come again?"

"Engagement need not be that ... noisy," Athos replied.

Porthos would benefit from channelling his raw strength, he had noted; he appeared to waste a lot of energy in ... expending energy, he thought; but did not voice it.

Porthos, however, could see no other way of reacting, and resented being criticised for the behaviour that had always served him well. He knew of no other way.

Athos was unaware of the effect his words had had on Porthos. He had intended no criticism as such; he was merely making an observation.

"So, what should "engagement" be?" Porthos growled. "Why don't you explain it to me?"

Athos chose that moment to slide down the tree, although he did look as though he was prepared to begin his explanation.

It was at that moment that Treville came by, he and four Musketeers on escort duty, having delivered their charge safely to his Chateau in a hired coach and now returning to the Garrison.

Porthos had fired his pistol to get their attention, and they had veered off the road to meet the carnage before them.

"Gentlemen," Treville said, surveying the damage with a cool gaze. "I believe you are in need of transportation."

"I can ride," Porthos said, though it seemed that he could barely straighten up.

"So can I," growled Athos, though he could barely stand, nor bend his knee.

"Humour me," Treville said.

Leaving a detail to bury the dead, Porthos and Athos had no alternative but to be assisted into the coach, their horses tied behind. Treville climbed into the coach to assess his men.

There was not much he could do for Porthos, who was sitting very still, breathing carefully; his back tight against the back of the seat, his eyes blazing at Athos, now sitting opposite. Treville propped Athos's leg onto the seat opposite him, next to Porthos's thigh and then set about examining his chest wound; peeling back his doublet.

"This will require stitches, Athos," he said, as he pulled the scarf from his soldier's neck and stuffed it inside his shirt in an attempt to stem the blood flow.

"How did this happen?" Treville asked as his two men continued to glare at each other.

"He was supposed to be on watch," Porthos muttered.

"We did not agree that," Athos countered.

"You were in charge," Porthos replied.

"We did not agree that either," Athos growled.

Porthos realised at that moment that he had assumed that Athos would be in charge. That made him even angrier. Why had he assumed that?!"

Athos realised he had been reluctant to take charge, in light of them working well together, until the ambush, when their different styles of fighting became obvious. He was a little put out that Porthos had been quick to criticise, but he had seemed a little off all day. They were like chalk and cheese, he knew, and it was beginning to show.

"You probably gave our position away, crashing around the horses," Athos muttered, before he could help himself.

"You were the one collectin' the wood, and lightin' the fire," Porthos hissed. "They probably saw you."

"There were no reports of unlawful activity in the area," Athos hissed back.

"Oh, well that's alright then," Porthos growled, "maybe we made a mistake! Maybe they just wanted to chat!"

Porthos was not sure why he was so angry. But Athos's next word did nothing to help.

"Dolt," Athos said, as the coach swayed and jarred his knee.

"Ass!" Porthos returned, glaring at the man in front of him.

Treville had had enough.

"Both of you, be quiet!"

Treville removed himself from the coach, and the journey to the Garrison began.

By the time they reached the infirmary, both had to be helped from the coach. Porthos's breathing was worse and Athos's wound was still bleeding and his knee was very swollen.

Being carried into the Infirmary did not help their moods.

oOo

Aramis believed Porthos had a couple of broken ribs and bound his chest tightly, before helping him to a bed and propping him against a generous amount of pillows.

Athos joined him later, equally bound, having received ten stitches. Aramis placed a pillow under his knee and turned to look at them both.

"Play nicely," he smiled, before leaving them alone. No doubt to air their differences.

Porthos was the first to speak.

"Alright, next time we get in a fight, you can show me 'ow to do it right," he said.

"Very well," Athos replied, obviously taking him at his word.

Porthos had gaped. His Lordship obviously didn't understand sarcasm when it dripped his way.

He did not see the smirk on Athos's face that undermined that assumption. Had he seen that smirk, he would have known that to be untrue. Athos understood sarcasm very well. In fact, he was somewhat of a master at it.

The day wore on.

Porthos became restless.

"You should keep still," Athos said, his eyes closed.

"Should I?!" Porthos growled.

"Broken ribs are a tricky thing. I once had a horse ..." Athos began.

"I ain't no horse!" Porthos shot back.

"No, quite," Athos replied.

"Can't keep still, anyway," Porthos grumbled. "Can't get comfortable."

"Is there anything I can do?" Athos asked quietly, after a few moments.

"Not unless you're a physician, as well as an expert fighter," Porthos replied, tersely.

Athos had turned away then, a little abashed and Porthos felt an unusual feeling. Regret.

The man was obviously trying and Porthos should meet him half way. However, in truth, neither quite knew how to continue, so they both lay back.

Silence fell heavily.

"I thought you were going to die," Athos said, under his breath, so that Porthos did not hear him.

"I thought you were going to get yaself killed," Porthos murmured quietly, when he was sure Athos was asleep.

oOo

Athos awoke in the dark. A light sleeper at the best of times, he realised it was a noise that had woken him. He turned his head.

Porthos was choking.

In his sleep he has rolled onto his side and his broken ribs must have shifted, compromising his lungs.

He was facing him but Athos could not see properly in the dark. He called out to him to wake. He did not; continuing to make gurgling sounds as his chest began to heave.

Athos realised what had happened, and that he needed to act fast and help Porthos to roll onto his back. But Porthos was not responding to his urgent calls.

Athos called again and Porthos's eyes flew open. Seeing the beginnings of panic, Athos threw back his sheet and moved his legs over the edge of the cot, gritting his teeth against the sudden simultaneous pains in his chest and knee. Porthos stared helplessly at Athos, eyes awash as he struggled to breathe.

Athos's leg gave way and he folded his arm across his chest, feeling the stitches pull. All he could do was crawl, which he did, as quickly as he could, feeling the stitches give and biting down a cry of pain.

It seems to take a long while to get to Porthos's bed. When he did, he was at a loss what to do, but instinct kicked in and he grabbed his shoulder and attempted to push him over, back onto his back.

But Porthos was heavy.

Porthos's arm flailed, nearly hitting Athos across the face.

Athos grabbed it.

Finally, they were face to face,

"Breathe, brother!" Athos said, holding his face between his hands, desperately trying to lock eyes with him.

"Easy! Breathe; not too deep or your ribs will shift further."

Gradually Porthos complied; his breathing syncing with Athos's who continued to talk softly to him, taking his attention away from his panic.

"Move with me now Porthos,"

Athos pulled his pillows up as Porthos slowly rolled onto his back; leaving him in a raised position.

The pressure of his ribs on his lungs eased, and he managed to pull in a deeper breath.

Just then, Athos looked down and saw that his wound had opened, and his breath hitched.

Porthos turned his head and his eyes widened when he saw the red stain on Athos's bandage.

"Sorry, brother" Porthos whispered, his large hand falling on Athos's shoulder.

"Not your fault," Athos said. "It is I who should be apologising to you."

"For what?" Porthos grunted.

"It seems that you do very little quietly."

"And you ain't heard me laugh yet. I get into trouble for that."

"I shall look forward to it."

An hour later, Aramis came in to check on them to find Athos sitting on Porthos's bed. Athos had managed to put a fold of bandage over his opened wound, and Porthos had tied the strip of bandage at his back.

They were both now talking quietly, and Aramis stopped dead in the doorway at the sight.

"What on earth happened here?" he said, as he took the scene in.

"Nothing," Porthos replied.

"Nothing," Athos added.

But they knew, and Aramis knew, that something momentus had happened.

A few days later, Porthos and Athos, who had been assisted into the Infirmary cursing each other, walked out as brothers.

Watching from his balcony, Treville smiled.

His regiment was taking shape. This was going to be interesting.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	21. Quiet Times

**21 QUIET TIMES**

Sometimes, a little quiet time is needed.

 **All of them:**

Quiet times were sometimes to be had in the Infirmary;

When fevers had spiked and eased. When wounds had been sewn, wrapped and pain relief given. When illnesses had been treated.

Sometimes, those quiet times were to be relished; especially if they were all together.

Athos, usually the first to leave, _sometimes_ lingered if they were all together.

Quiet times _then_ were like those times when they camped beneath the stars; a mission accomplished and spirits high and when they talked together and laughed and teased and reminisced.

Often in the Infirmary, however, such times were tinged with a stark reality borne out of near-loss, or guilt. Or anger. Or fear.

And, of course, love. Always, love **.**

After recent trauma, there was relief that the future was still there to be discussed, but such quiet times could wear heavily on shoulders that bore the weight of responsibility and duty. At such times, the sight of a brother, eyes not bright with post-mission accomplishment but with pain, clouded perhaps with what might have been, was something hard to bear.

Quiet times in this place were times to take stock.

They were times to consider, inevitably, what had gone wrong. What had been missed? Why this had happened.

Such times were to be spent quietly sending thanks that their precious brotherhood had not been broken;

Sending thanks that they would still search for Aramis amongst the finer quarters of Paris; their eyes straying upward to windowsills that, hopefully, would bear his weight. That they would still marvel at his marksman's eye. That they would still hear Porthos's irreverent roar of laughter; often despite their surroundings. They would still continue to oblige him by going in search of the odd melon when he was drunk enough to perform his party piece. And thanks that they would still watch for that potential sparring moment when d'Artagnan may just best his mentor and they would still be aware of the wrath of Constance if they did not return the love of her life, fully functioning after a mission. They would still fall in behind Athos, or stand at his side, quietly accepting his leadership. They would still continue to ensure he got home safely from a tavern, no doubt carrying his demons in their wake until such times as they could help him vanquish them. Whether he wanted their help or not.

Yes, quiet times were for saying thanks that they would still do all those things.

oOo

Quiet times could be infrequent and were therefore, not to be taken lightly.

At first, they had not respected the power that such times held.

They had risen, dressed and walked away from the Infirmary without a backward glance - only to find themselves stealing glances at each other, or lost in thought. Often feeling heavy of heart as recent experiences replayed themselves, over and over. Athos would become lost within himself. d'Artagnan would appear skittish, not wanting to let them out of his sight. Aramis would be forever checking. Porthos would brood. They learned that quiet times helped that.

They learned, eventually, to be honest, when asked about their hurts. In Athos's case, he still gave as little information as he could get away with, but they learned to read him. They learned to use such times properly, before they left the confines of the Infirmary.

Quiet times were spent holding a hand and whispering encouragements;

In sharing memories;

Or waiting for the dawn to break;

In holding back a tear.

In pleading for a brother to still, to not fight; to _please_ ...quieten. Rest. Heal.

Sometimes of course, using such time to plead that a brother _does_ fight. " _Fight with all you have, brother_."

Quiet times spent outside, though never far away;

Staring at the moon and wondering if it had the power to heal.

Staring out of the window; forehead pressed against glass, breath frosting so it is impossible to see out, though your eyes are closed so it does not matter. The outside world does not matter.

Staring at the floor; familiar now with every mark, chip and crack.

Staring anywhere, at anything that does not hurt to look at.

For some times, some things are too much to bear.

Quiet times; when only the sound of harsh breathing disturbs – but confirms life.

oOo

The sound of a distant church bell.

The bark of a dog.

The screech of the peregrine hawk that makes its home amid the buttresses of Notre Dame; destroying the peace of the local pigeons.

The rumble of a lead-lined cartwheel against cobbles as the dawn breaks.

These sounds can chafe, if quiet contemplation is sought.

They can also comfort, for they herald life outside these walls. Otherwise, it is possible to become lost within, as walls close in; the world inside suddenly too small. Too cruel.

oOo

Quiet times can lead to loud thoughts.

They are for remembering. A hearty meal once shared. A triumph. High days and low days – all part of their brotherhood. Too much to lose.

And so, gradually, quiet times become times that they welcome and appreciate, and use.

Where they find themselves - and each other once more - after being lost for a time.

Quiet times ...

No longer taken for granted; where some of the best healing takes place.

Body and soul.

Where their bond is reaffirmed.

Until the next quiet time.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	22. Of Things Overheard

**22\. OF THINGS OVERHEARD**

All sorts of things are overheard in the Infirmary.

Some can instil the Fear of God and some can confuse.

Here are three tales from the other side of Aramis's usual experience.

oOo

 **(i)- THE PROMISE**

 **Aramis and Athos:**

Marcel died screaming.

The musket ball was buried deep in his gut; too deep, it seemed, to remove. They had moved him into one of the rooms at the end of the Infirmary.

But Aramis, confined through sickness to a bed at the far end, could still hear him scream.

In the end, they had closed the door.

Eventually, he stopped.

When Athos came by later, he stood in the doorway, observing his friend.

Aramis was white; his hands shook and his pillow, clutched to his chest, was shredded.

Athos crossed the room in quick order, coming to a halt beside him and looking down at a face he hardly recognised.

"Marcel?" he asked softly.

Aramis had nodded, his eyes not straying from the closed door at the end of the room.

"They will bring him out shortly," he whispered.

An hour later, they watched together as Marcel's body was carried out, wrapped tightly in a sheet.

It was a forlorn sight.

"Promise me something," Aramis said, his voice barely audible.

"Of course. Anything."

"Promise me you won't ever let me die screaming."

Athos was shocked. So this was why Aramis looked so disturbed. He had seen death before, but for some reason, this had taken its toll.

He said the only thing he could think of;

"You are ill, Aramis. It is always harder to cope when you are ill."

He leant across and put his hand gently on Aramis's shoulder, so as not to catch him unawares. He was distracted; hardly there at all.

" _Promise_!" Aramis said urgently, trying to rise from the bed; his eyes still on the far door.

Athos quickly lifted his hand from his friend's shoulder and placed it firmly on his chest, pushing him down.

"Very well. I swear," he murmured.

Right now, he would promise Aramis anything.

Aramis relaxed a little then and crossed himself for Marcel.

Athos reached out and took Aramis's chin in his hand and brought his face to look at him.

"If you will do the same for me," he added, softly.

Aramis stared into his eyes. For the first time in days, for just one moment, they were clear.

"I swear it," he replied.

oOo

 **(ii)-GOSSIP**

 **Aramis and Athos:**

"I never knew our brothers led such interesting lives outside the Garrison," Aramis said from his sickbed some days later.

Athos raised an eyebrow. He really did not want to know.

But Aramis leant over towards him conspiratorially.

Aramis had been quite ill and Athos had been stopping by whenever he could, along with Porthos and d'Artagnan. At first, they had all stayed with him, fearing the worst; but duty now called and so they shared their care of him when they could.

Although Aramis was obviously still fevered, Athos was relieved so see that he was looking a little brighter today, following his setback over Marcel.

Aramis had seen death many times, but lying helplessly in a bed when ill and having to listen to a brother pass so traumatically had led to a profound reaction. Athos would comply with the promise he had made Aramis that night, or bear it to his own grave, if it was not reciprocated.

Athos came back from his thoughts to Aramis speaking quietly.

"Ruben is seeing a married woman who lives just off the Place Dauphine," he was saying.

The Place Dauphine was a public square near the western side of the lle de la Cite in the first arrondissement of Paris and overlooking the Pont Neuf, the bridge that connected the left and right banks of the Seine. It was an exclusive area but Reuben was noble by birth and such an attachment was equal to his status.

"Unusual for a Musketeer," Athos replied, side-glancing him. For himself, however, he failed to see the attraction for married women; or for marriage in general, for that matter.

However, Aramis did not respond to his sarcasm, nor seem to notice; he had more to tell.

"Her husband is wealthy, though he has debts," he therefore continued.

Athos sighed. He supposed he would have to listen to the whole sorry tale. Having procured it, Aramis seemed quite keen to relate it.

"Why not save this for Porthos," Athos attempted. "I am sure he will enjoy the tale more than I," he ventured.

But Aramis shook his head.

"Ruben was fallen upon by thugs in the market two nights ago."

"I know," Athos replied patiently. "It is not wise to walk alone in the streets after midnight."

"Well, you would know," Aramis replied absently, "you have undertaken that activity yourself plenty of times."

"You digress," Athos said, irritated now.

"What?"

"Ruben's unfortunate encounter ...?" Athos reminded him bluntly.

"Ah, yes," Aramis said, laying back and for a while, Athos thought he had fallen asleep. Good. But no; he rallied.

"Last night," Aramis continued, "Ruben was taken with a fever."

Athos looked across at Ruben in concern.

Seeing him look, Aramis spoke again;

"It's alright, Lemay saw to him before he left."

Athos nodded, wishing that Aramis would fall asleep now. It was unusual for him to gossip, at least when he was ill. He was usually quiet at such times. They usually realised he was on the mend when he _started_ to gossip. That was certainly not the case now, if his pale complexion was anything to go by.

"Sleep, Aramis," Athos said, softly.

"No!" Aramis cried suddenly. "I have to tell you!"

Athos leaned forward and pulled the sheet up, tucking his brother in, for want of something to do. He was at a loss as to where Aramis was going with this.

Aramis was distracted for a moment as he stared up at Athos; watching him.

"The husband," he continued, vaguely.

"Hmmmm?" Athos responded.

"The husband of the woman Ruben is seeing ..." Aramis replied, wearily.

"The cuckold," Athos said under his breath, so that Aramis did not hear.

"Treason, Athos," Aramis said, becoming agitated; clutching at his sleeve now.

Athos looked down at his clutching hand and opened his mouth to speak when his friend said something that made him close it.

"He plans to rob the King," Aramis said, "Louis is in danger!"

Athos looked up suddenly and locked eyes with Aramis.

Aramis nodded.

Athos reached out and pushed the hair from Aramis's forehead.

"Explain," he urged; intent on Aramis now.

"He plans to ambush the royal coach, Athos," Aramis said clearly.

Athos's stared at him and his mind began to whirl.

There was no way that Aramis would know about the King's planned trip, nor what wealth he would be carrying. It had been arranged on the day that he had been admitted to the infirmary - and before Ruben was admitted. The attack on Ruben was no random attack, Athos realised. He must have found out about the attempt on the royal coach and had therefore been attacked to ensure his silence. He had been unconscious since, but his fever had brought his discovery to the surface.

There had been no other intelligence of any threat, and the proposed Musketeer escort was adequate but would be unprepared. Had Aramis not overheard Ruben's ramblings, they would all be none the wiser.

Athos stood suddenly, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword; a soldier once more.

"Rest now, my friend. Be assured, I am on my way."

He took one last look at Aramis, exhausted now, and turned on his heel, heading out of the door. There was no doubt in his mind as to what Aramis had overheard. He had tried to make Athos understand, and finally, he had succeeded.

It was not gossip that Aramis had divulged, but valuable intelligence, wrought from the most difficult of circumstances, for both Ruben and for Aramis.

As Athos ran across the yard now to wake Treville, he thanked the powers that be for Aramis's presence of mind and sheer persistence in the face of his own disinterest.

Climbing the stairs, he found himself looking forward to the day his brother would begin to gossip in earnest once more.

It was a most unusual feeling.

oOo

 **(iii)-CANIS LUPUS**

 **Aramis and Porthos:**

 **A few days later:**

"There is a wolf," Aramis said, on the night his fever peaked.

Porthos had been sitting with him for several hours now, alternating between covering him with a blanket when he shivered and sweeping it aside when he thrashed.

"I heard him."

Aramis explained about the claws that tapped across the floorboards.

"I was alone, but I don't think he meant me any harm."

"A wolf?" Porthos said, carefully.

"I heard him."

Porthos frowned.

"It was just a dream, Aramis. No wolves 'ere."

"I saw him."

"What?"

"He was black, with a thick coat. He had yellow eyes," Aramis whispered, looking around the room.

"Big paws?" Pothos rumbled as he placed the cold cloth on Aramis's forehead once more.

"Yes. You've seen him then?"

Porthos did not know whether to continue to humour his brother or keep arguing against the possibility of wolves in the Infirmary.

"Is he 'ere now?" Porthos asked, his eyes flicking around the room, despite himself.

"No, he went out the window," Aramis replied, eyes closed now.

"Before he went, he stole my bread," he continued.

Porthos looked across at the plate he had placed on the table earlier, when he had attempted to get Aramis to eat something, and failed.

It was empty.

"Wolves 'ad that?" Porthos murmured, deciding to continue with the former tactic of humouring him.

"Just the one wolf," Aramis continued. "And he took my dagger."

Aramis, like Athos, liked to keep a dagger under his pillow. It brought them comfort, even in the Infirmary. No-one would attempt to divest them of their weapon of choice.

"Yeah, well, every wolf needs a dagger," Porthos grunted.

He was relieved then to see Athos and d'Artagnan arrive to take over, but decided that in view of Aramis's higher temperature, he would stay.

Porthos relayed Aramis's tale to them. They had all shared a look while they took turns to make Aramis comfortable; fluffing pillows, changing sheets, replacing candles and the like.

It was a long night.

By the end of it, they all felt they knew the wolf personally, but despite it all, their ears pricked for the sound of claws tapping across the floorboards behind them.

Finally, as dawn broke, much to their relief, so did Aramis's fever.

After the worry of the last days, Aramis now looked exhausted, but present.

"You're back," Porthos smiled. "All fine 'an fit. You've 'ad some adventures, my friend," he said.

"Have I?" Aramis replied, looking at them, confused still but brighter. "What happened to the wolf?"

Porthos laughed, and reached out to plump up his pillows.

His hand froze as he saw, there on the sheet, beneath the pillow, was a large muddy paw print.

oOo

Outside, in the early morning sunshine, they sat at their table and prepared to drink a toast to Aramis, a custom they had amongst themselves; relieved when a brother was finally on the mend.

Just then the local blacksmith, Laroche, appeared. Seeing them sitting there, he strode over.

Leaning over, he placed an object wrapped in sacking on the table in front of them.

"I thought I should bring this back," he boomed, "It obviously belongs to one of you lot, going by the fleur de lis on the handle and the fact that it's my own work."

Porthos reached over and pulled the sacking aside, gazing at his friend's knife, glinting in the early morning sun.

Apparently the man's dog had taken to roaming at night and this morning, it had arrived back home carrying the dagger in his mouth.

"Big black dog? Yellow eyes?" Porthos asked, looking up at the blacksmith.

"That's him, the brute," the blacksmith replied genially.

"Many thanks, we shall ensure it is returned to its owner" Athos said, reaching out to shake the man's hand. "He will be delighted to have it back. Should your animal return, we will know to whom he should be returned."

"Much appreciated. He's a good guard dog, with his looks and all," the man laughed.

As the blacksmith made his way back through the archway, they were all lost in thought.

"Not a wolf, then." Porthos huffed, sounding somewhat disappointed.

"That is one less thing to worry about," Athos conceded.

"For someone confined to the Infirmary, Aramis has had a busy few days," d'Artagnan said, as he poured wine into their cups.

Earlier, a large contingent of Musketeers had returned from protecting the King's coach, having foiled an attempted robbery; a man had been arrested in the Place Dauphine. And now the blacksmith had returned Aramis's dagger. Athos had not forgotten the promise Aramis had wrought from him; and he mulled quietly over it now.

"To Marcel," Athos suddenly said. "May he find peace after a difficult passing."

Taken by surprise, d'Artagnan and Porthos clinked glasses with Athos. Something had happened between Aramis and Athos on that score, they knew, but nothing had been said. Athos was not a religious man, but he was not averse to wishing a soul Godspeed.

"And to Aramis, Gentlemen," Athos said, after refilling their glasses. "Let us hope we can keep him out of the Infirmary for the foreseeable future. It has not been conducive to peace and tranquillity."

"Drama always finds 'im, Athos, wherever he is; you know that," Porthos laughed, as they drained their glasses.

"Then, we will have to be on our guard," Athos sighed. "And take him at his word; however strange it may sound at times."

"Amen to that," Porthos laughed.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	23. Storm Damage

" _Quack, leave thy trade, thy dealings are not right, thou tak'st our weighty gold, to give us light."_

 _Frances Quarles (1592-1644); Hieroglyphikes of the Life of Man, 1638._

oOo

Athos whump anyone?

 **STORM DAMAGE**

 **Athos:**

Thinking back of course, he knew why he had attempted to outrun the storm.

He had wanted to get back to Paris. His throat was sore and his bones had started to ache. The thought of his own bed lured him and the light had not yet faded; although the storm clouds were gathering.

His brothers saw no problem with leaving him to finish the King's business with the Baron while they rode ahead. He would only be a few hours behind them after all, so there would be time to report back to their Captain and, when Athos returned, deliver the Baron's response. They would then meet up in The Wren, and Athos would either join them, or take to his bed, depending on his mood.

Roger had earlier shed a shoe and the Baron had offered the assistance of his stable hands. Athos therefore insisted that they ride ahead, while he waited for them to complete their task and for the Baron to sign the last set of documents confirming his purchase of adjoining land from the Crown.

When Roger was properly shod, Athos accepted a final cup of wine to soothe his throat and swung into the saddle, taking one last look at the grey skies before reining his horse through the Chateau gates and heading east to Paris.

He made good progress; head down, hat pulled low and cape billowing behind him as the wind picked up. He was over half way to his destination when the lightening commenced. Sharp forks lit up the darkening skies, followed closely by loud rumbles of thunder. Cursing under his breath, he spurred Roger on, while the light still held. He had no desire to stop at another inadequate inn and sleep in an unknown bed that was probably infested, if the ones they had used on the outward journey was anything to go by. He suspected that that was where he had picked up his sore throat anyway.

He was confident that he would make it, until the rains came; sudden and hard.

He had hoped the storm was passing over him but as he pressed Roger on, it was obvious he was riding into the heart of it. Still, though, the light held, and he continued. All went well, until a bright flash of lightning and simultaneous roar of thunder enveloped horse and rider and suddenly, a shape crashed through the forest to his right. A deer, startled into blind panic, ran directly into their path, and Roger veered to the side, stumbling through the undergrowth of nearby trees. He jumped over a tangle of tree roots, Athos giving him his head. Losing his footing on landing, the stallion dipped suddenly and Athos lost hold of the reins. Making a grab for the pommel of his saddle, he caught hold, only for the deer to find its way once more in front of the startled horse, and he reared.

Athos lost his footing in the stirrups and, with nothing to hold on to, he felt himself tumbling backwards and braced himself for whatever was to come.

He landed awkwardly, with no time to prepare. His shoulder flared and his head hit the offending tree roots. The last he remembered was Roger's scream as another flash of lightning lit up the now-dark sky above him.

oOo

When Athos failed to appear a few hours later, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan were not overly concerned. The storm was extensive, and they presumed that Athos would miss their visit to The Wren and subsequently his bed, for which he had been pining for the last few days, due to his feeling under par. However, they were sure he would be tucked up in a roadside establishment and he would appear in the morning, bad tempered and incapable of polite conversation.

When he did not appear for their mid-day meal, and no one had seen him, they set out. Even if Athos had stayed in an inn for the night, he would have left at first light and made it back by now.

Something was wrong.

They retraced their steps from their return journey the day before and were beginning to feel the ominous pull of concern, when d'Artagnan, slightly ahead, suddenly shouted.

Roger was standing placidly in the undergrowth off the main road to the left of the muddy road.

Dismounting quickly, they approached the horse quietly, mindful of his taciturn nature, but the horse was quiet; though wet, the water dripping off him. The surrounding leaves were equally soaked, shining with moisture, which dripped on to the woodland floor.

Porthos took the horses's reins carefully and pulled him aside, speaking gently. The horse complied, obviously exhausted, but refused to go far.

"Athos must be around 'ere," Porthos said, "Roger won't budge."

They shouted, but their calls went unanswered, echoing eerily through the wet forest.

They only had to walk a few paces though, to find him, face down amongst the undergrowth; half covered with low dripping branches; hatless but with his cloak half covering him. It was a small consolation.

"Has he lain here all night?!" Aramis cried, pulling off his own cloak from his shoulders and bending down.

They gently turned him over and were shocked by his appearance. He was soaking wet and white. The touch of his cold skin caused Aramis to draw back his hand quickly.

"Is he ...?" d'Artagnan whispered, pulling in a breath that he held, while Aramis pushed his fingers into Athos's neck.

After an agonising wait, Aramis sat back on his haunches.

"Alive," he said, in relief.

Porthos huffed;

"Stubborn bugger," he said fondly, as d'Artagnan let his breath out loudly.

Aramis wrapped him in his cloak and they gently lifted him and prepared to leave. Staying any longer than necessary in the damp forest was not an option.

oOo

They had only ridden a careful, short distance when they had the good fortune to come across a merchant in his cart, taking sacks of animal feed to Paris to sell. The sacks were covered with an oiled sheet and so they were dry. The merchant was amenable to help and they laid Athos amongst the sacks. Aramis threw his own cloak over him once more, whilst entertaining a vague thought about what the former Comte would make of the mode and manner of his transportation. However, they could not continue on horseback, that was certain, so he said a quick thanks skyward and mounted his horse. Athos was now wearing d'Artagnan's shirt, the young man having removed it from beneath his jerkin in the forest before they set off; still warm from his body heat. Porthos pulled the merchant's oiled sheet over him and they set off, just as the sun broke weakly through the morning clouds; an omen of sorts perhaps, Aramis hoped, as he looked at Athos, deeply unconscious and deathly pale.

d'Artagnan rode alongside the cart, occasionally looking down, and then back at Aramis, who nodded his reassurance. Porthos and Aramis rode silently behind, willing the leagues to fall away.

Eventually, Paris came within sight and, without being asked, the merchant took them all the way into the Garrison courtyard. Porthos dismounted and jumped up onto the cart to pull Athos into his arms and pass him down to Aramis and d'Artagnan.

The merchant would not take one livre, so Aramis paid him for three sacks of grain, which was unloaded by two Musketeers; part of a concerned group that had now begun to gather around the cart.

Hearing the commotion, Treville came out of his office and was soon making a fast descent of his staircase.

Porthos had Athos crumpled in his arms and Treville came to a halt in front of him. Reaching out he placed his hand on his soldier's forehead, and held it for a few moments, frowning, before raising his eyes to Porthos.

"Quickly," he said in a low voice, and Porthos turned and headed toward the Infirmary at speed.

Athos was still deathly cold and had not begun to shiver. Porthos banked up the fire in one of the small Infirmary rooms that Athos preferred and they pulled off the rest of his clothes. His own cape had protected half his body and kept the earth he was lying on from becoming sodden. That had now been flung over a post outside the mess to dry out. They had no idea though how long he had lain in the rain. Aramis was equally worried about the lump on the back of his head. And again, they had no clue as to how long he had been unconscious or whether he had woken at any point during the long night.

"Can you handle this?" Treville asked Aramis quietly from the doorway.

Aramis looked up and locked eyes with his Captain.

"Yes," he said firmly.

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged a look, but Treville nodded and turned to leave, trusting his soldier.

"Anything you need, Aramis," Treville added tersley, before disappearing through the doorway, "Don't hesitate."

"Are you sure?" Porthos asked when Treville had gone.

"We need to warm him," Aramis replied, ignoring the question.

d'Artagnan began to put stones in the grate to heat up and they then stood back, leaving Aramis to begin the work of checking injuries more thoroughly.

The stones and blankets did their work and gradually, his body warmed and he began to shiver; a sign of his return to life. Once the shivering stopped, they removed the stones and pulled blankets around him.

oOo

" **We Wait."**

Some hours after their arrival back at the Garrison, Athos slowly awoke to Aramis, holding his arm stretched up against his own shoulder, a hand making long sweeping strokes from shoulder to wrist.

"Are you attempting warmth or pain relief?" he murmured through a voice he did not quite recognise.

Aramis stopped and just held his arm propped against his shoulder.

"A little of both," he smiled. "How do you feel?"

"I can see two of you," Athos replied. "One is enough."

Aramis's smile faded, which was not his intention..

"How on earth did you get me back?" Athos said then, realising he was in the Infirmary.

"Roger can be quite obliging, if the mood takes him. He seemed to like d'Artagnan when he doubled up with you," Aramis said quietly, "and then we came upon a kind merchant with a cart," he added, before continuing his ministrations.

He looked up and caught Athos watching him.

"This was dislocated," he murmured. "I put it put back while you were out, but it will need to be coaxed back into action," he added, brightly, although the tight lines around his face betrayed him.

"No doubt your muscles are stiff and your bones ache. And you are awash with bruises," he babbled, before realising what he had said and suddenly stopping, looking up at him with wide brown eyes.

"At least I was not in danger of dying of thirst," Athos replied.

"Merely drowning," Aramis replied, quickly, but with a sharp edge.

"I am fine, why are you angry?" Athos asked softly, not comfortable with the turn the conversation was taking, and making a futile attempt to regain his arm. It only made Aramis tighten his grip.

"No, you are not!" Aramis replied. "Your lungs may yet fill with fluid."

Aramis glared at him.

"So, I may yet drown," Athos said after a few moments, in an attempt at humour.

At that, he suddenly did regain his arm, and wished he had not. The pain flared to his chest and he groaned. Aramis, quickly repentant, stood and eased him forward, pulling his pillows up behind him. The elevated position helped and the pain eased a little.

"Why did you challenge the storm?!" Aramis demanded.

Athos sighed.

"There was time. It was still light. It was the fault of a damned deer."

"No doubt afraid of the storm!" Aramis countered, still angry.

"No doubt," Athos replied wearily, before a coughing fit suddenly overtook him.

Aramis waited him out, his own chest tightening at the sight.

Eventually, Athos regained his breath, though the pain in his shoulder and head threatened to steal it once more.

"My apologies," Athos managed, as he wiped his mouth with a clothe Aramis handed him. "Point taken."

"This will go one of two ways," Aramis said, retrieving the clothe and standing but not meeting his eyes.

When he did not continue, Athos reached up and lay his hand on Aramis's forearm.

"Aramis. Sit. Tell me."

Aramis sighed and sank onto the chair.

oOo

"You were already coming down with a chill. You have most probably lain in the rain all night. This will either affect your lungs or your chest."

"And which is the better option?" Athos asked.

"The latter."

"Very well," he replied.

The fever was low, but took his strength. The coughing started again that night, a dry hack that tightened his chest and aggravated his shoulder.

Each bout left him drained.

The next few hours were spent with Aramis watching for his breathing to become difficult, although it was hard to judge, as the coughing stole it away each time.

"You've seen this before?" Athos asked him after a particularly prolonged attack.

"On the battlefield," Aramis had replied. "When the rain was unforgiving and the earth became a lake. Men, soaked to the skin who survived the fighting, but later succumbed to the ague."

Athos did not respond, but his hand curled into a fist as he held his arm over his chest; the most comfortable position for his aching shoulder.

"But, you are stronger, brother," Aramis added firmly, "Not weakened by poor rations and lack of sleep."

"Well, perhaps the latter," Athos conceded, his eyes flicking back to his friend.

"Then sleep now, while you can."

"While we wait?"

"While we wait," Aramis replied.

oOo

Whatever ailed Athos was initially vicious, leaving him wheezing and short of breath. He was not left alone for a moment and Treville ensured that Aramis was free from duty for the most part in order to ease his path to recovery. Porthos and d'Artagnan were growing agitated that Athos was not improving but Aramis would not be drawn into any discussions, intent on his ministrations. Athos did not comment, seemingly trusting Aramis to do what he must.

But even he began to waiver as he began to feel helpless to the onslaught of the cough that would come from nowhere, tightening his chest.

"Treville has my testament," he whispered, after a particularly bad attack, his voice wrecked through coughing.

"Mine, too," Aramis replied, refusing to be drawn.

"It's there, if you should need to know my wishes."

"Please, don't."

"Aramis ..."

"I am ... _we ..._ are not ready to give you up."

oOo

"We wait," Aramis said firmly, facing Porthos.

Porthos was angry.

"What exactly are we waitin' for?!"

"One more day. If it is bronchial, it will clear in a few days. If it is not and his lungs become infected, a physician will bleed him, or worse."

"How do you know that?"

"It's what they do," Aramis whispered, looking at the ground.

Porthos quietened. He suddenly realised - Aramis was scared.

"There are quacks out there, Porthos, just waiting to ply their trade," Aramis said, looking up at him. His eyes, indeed, were full of fear.

And then Aramis told them of the story of Pierre Masonne, a young soldier he knew at one of the battles he had been a part of on the northern coast before he joined the Musketeers.

Pierre was a friend in a bleak climate and he had succumbed in a similar way. His cough was wet and he had a fever. Eventually, he coughed phlegm and blood. The battlefield surgeons had bled him and given him enemas, weakening him so much he had little left to fight with. Eventually, the infection overwhelmed him, reaching his brain; yet still the physicians persisted in tormenting him right to the point of death.

Aramis had been wringing his hands while he spoke, but now he looked up, hopefully.

"Others were similarly stricken, Porthos, and yet they began to recover naturally within a few days."

Porthos and d'Artagnan were looking at him, confused but quieter.

"I want to give him that chance," Aramis finished.

"But if you're wrong?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Then we deal with it when it happens," Treville said, from the doorway, startling them.

The Captain looked at Aramis.

"We wait," he nodded.

They left Aramis alone then, with a sleeping Athos, who had not been party to the tale or the decision.

"Please, Athos," he whispered, picking up his limp hand. "Prove me right."

oOo

Athos never doubted Aramis's conviction, despite not having heard his tale of Pierre. When Aramis was focussed on this level, he could only support him. He had seen Porthos and d'Artagnan casting looks at each other, but held his peace. Aramis said it would go one of two ways and, like Aramis, he was focussed on the latter. If not for himself, then for his friend, who only had his survival in his heart.

Athos therefore decided to comply and not cause his brother any more doubt, for he knew in his heart of hearts, that Aramis was holding out in hope rather than certainty and did not need a difficult patient to chip at his confidence. The words, "are you sure?" therefor never passed his lips. Aramis was no doctor, but he was well-read and knew his remedies, passed down through his family and the Jesuits of his childhood, who he had watched in fascination as a boy as they moved through his community.

When Athos felt himself failing, his continual headache making him constantly sleepy, he allowed Aramis to fuss, pulling a blanket around his back; bringing a spoon to his reluctant lips; swiping the damp hair from his forehead, or reading to him quietly – poems, not biblical verses – for which Athos was eternally grateful.

"Tell me when the waiting ends," he said that afternoon between poems.

"Be quiet," Aramis replied, turning the page, but a faint smile had played on his lips.

The familiar banter was muted, but it was still there.

By the fourth day, he was spending the hours in a hazy stupor as Aramis poured him cup after cup of ale to ease his airway; safer to drink than water and the herbs Aramis added went almost undetected. _Almost_. So Athos was content to lay back and weather the calm before the next storm, when the cough gripped him once more.

Porthos forced Aramis to rest, but he was never gone for long.

oOo

Later that day, d'Artagnan asked again.

"What if you're wrong?"

"Then we call a physician," Aramis replied quietly. "And I will have no authority to argue with him."

And so, with time running out and with d'Artagnan's unguarded question ringing in his ears, Aramis redoubled his efforts, if that were possible. He mixed his potions and sat with his hand on Athos's chest, waiting to feel the telltale signs of lungs compromised and breath stolen. He filled the room with steam, boiling water on the grate and although it was uncomfortable for those who sat with Athos, it seemed to help and the lines around his eyes eased and the coughing became less frequent.

Aramis was hopeful, until the morning that Athos coughed blood into a clothe.

oOo

Treville sent for a physician. Using his rank as Captain of the King's Musketeers, he sought a Royal Surgeon, and his request was granted.

The thought terrified Aramis. A Royal Surgeon had the King's Authority to Act and would hold sway over them all.

That afternoon, Aramis watched fearfully as a nervous-looking man appeared. The man apologised that he was newly-qualified and was only a recent addition to the Royal Household. He put his bag on the table and raised his eyebrows to Aramis in expectation.

Aramis explained Athos's ordeal and subsequent symptoms.

"There are also injuries," Aramis concluded. "Athos had fallen from his horse by all accounts."

Watching the doctor examine an exhausted and unusually compliant Athos, Aramis took a step forward.

"Please do not bleed him," he blurted out.

The doctor took his time, examining the lump on the back of his head, peering into his eyes and tapping on his back, before examining his throat.

Finally, he straightened and faced them.

"There is no need for that," he said, "This man has a concussion and an infection of the chest. I believe if you continue what you have been doing, he will show signs of recovery in the next few days."

"And his lungs?" Aramis asked tentatively.

"They are clear."

"But the blood?" he persisted, indicating the clothe in the bowl.

"An agitation of the throat, exacerbated by the dry cough," he said, packing up his equipment. "Give him honey and lemon, mixed into herbal tea. It will help reduce the swelling."

Aramis deflated in front of them and Porthos pulled him into a relieved hug, before drawing d'Artagnan into their circle.

Finally, they remembered Athos, and Porthos rushed forward to help him get comfortable, fussing over his blanket and pillows. Athos patted his hand and smiled for the first time in days, giving a small tilt of his head toward Aramis. A silent communication passed between them and then Aramis shook himself and turned happily back to the doctor.

 _This was a more progressive type of physician than those on the battlefield, he realised_.

"Thank you _Doctor_ ...? Aramis said, regaining some of his usual composure.

The man gave a nervous smile.

"Lemay," he replied.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

 **A/N:** I have no medical knowledge, but I have attempted to explain the difference between bronchitis and pneumonia. The terms as such did not exist at the time, so it was difficult to explain, without using our modern terms. In this story, Aramis knew the difference only by the subtle differences between the two from his experiences on the battlefield, prior to joining the Musketeers.

The first use of the term "bronchitis" was used in 1814 by British (Yay!) Physician, Charles Badham. He used it to denote "inflammatory changes in the mucous membrane."

In 1821, Dr Rene Laennec became known as "the father of chest medicine" thanks in part to his invention of the stethoscope, which made diagnosis, thankfully, much easier.

The _symptoms_ of pneumonia were first described by Hippocrates (c. 460 BC-370 BC). His clinical description is very similar to those found in modern textbooks and it reflected the extent of medical knowledge through the Middle Ages into the 19th century.

As for bleeding, it was obviously common practice for all sorts of ailments. For problems with the lungs, blood-letting followed by "four good purgings" was often prescribed.

Nearly every ancient civilisation throughout history has employed enemas to cleanse their bodies of toxins and waste. They were first recorded by Egyptians and have been depicted in art throughout the ages. The 17th century became known as the "age of the enema," and was particularly fashionable in Paris at that time, where it was acceptable practice to enjoy as many as three or four enemas a day. It is recorded that Louis XIV had more than 200 enemas in one year alone and apparently had over 2,000 during his lifetime, often continuing them during public audiences. Enemas were also a convenient way to administer poison, and Louis set up his own detective squad to investigate a rash of poisonings in Paris, administered in such a way.

Aramis may have not held as much conflict over enemas therefore (in view of the popular mood); merely their overuse, or when combined with other purges.


	24. Stand Off

" _The road to Hell is paved with good intentions" - thought to have originated with Saint Bernard of Clairvaux (Hell is full of good wishes or desires); c.1150_

oOo

 **24\. STAND OFF**

 **All of them:**

They had brought Bernier back to their Infirmary.

In hindsight, it had been a mistake.

He was insane.

oOo

He was not a Musketeer, but he _was_ a soldier. They had encountered him in the Forest of Brotonne where he fought beside them. He had appeared at an opportune moment when Porthos was in danger of being overwhelmed by the group of bandits who had come out of nowhere.

A pistol in each hand and moving stealthily through the undergrowth, he had killed three of the bandits with a ferocity that would have been disturbing, had they had the opportunity to observe him, but they did not; intent on their own survival as he moved behind them.

If they had seen him, they would perhaps have been more cautious.

However, he had saved Porthos's life, and they felt beholden to him; especially Porthos, who recognised something of a commonality in him, perhaps.

Again; a mistake.

If Athos had been with them, perhaps he would have recognised a discrepancy in Bernier. The way he had suddenly stilled, standing motionless, after he had saved Porthos; while they battled on. Staring into space, lost, until he was felled by a branch wielded by a bandit they had thought dead.

But Athos was still in his Infirmary bed recovering from the concussion and chest infection, acquired from his fall from Roger and subsequent soaking in the recent storms.*

Bernier's head wound was not a mortal one, but it did demand observations and an overnight stay. He had regained his senses before they left the forest, but they did not know him and the man they took with them was not the man he had once been. He was long gone. This was a man whose head was full of screaming voices that others could not hear. The sickness in his head was invisible.

And so, Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos gathered him up in goodwill and took a slow-burning bomb back to their Garrison. The fuse would detonate in the middle of the night, after he had descended into his nightmares and the subsequent hallucination that would take what was left of his sanity.

oOo

Bernier had become a mercenary, forced to chase his coin by methods that finally broke what was left of him. When he could no longer live among people – and they dare not live with him – he had taken to the forest and made his home there.

He had killed several people who had the misfortune to stumble on him, driven by the voices in his head that told him they meant him harm; that they were his judges and executioners, no trial for him. He had buried them, but their voices had only added to those already in his head.

oOo

That particular morning, Bernier's intentions had been good.

He had woken early and waded into the stream to bathe. He still remembered how to do that, though sometimes the voices laughed at how he struggled to maintain his habits. The sound of gunfire had him running back to his cave, were he retrieved his weapons. Strapping them on, he crept in the direction of the commotion and watched through the thicket, where he distinguished the two separate parties.

The fleur de lis on the shoulder of the large dark-skinned man flashed in the sunlight and a voice whispered _"Musketeer_ ," though he could not discern whether it told him friend or foe. Something stirred in his mind and he remembered the blue cloaks on the shores of La Rochelle when he was a soldier; not of fortune but of honour. They had been inspiring, but when it was over, and the red cloak of Richelieu had disappeared from the walled city, he had found himself adrift, making his way through the countryside. Living from hand to mouth, he then sold his sword and the voices remained.

The voices grew as he damned himself, killing for money and in the end, killing for killing's sake. His taste for spilling blood grew as his remorse lessened. In the end, he let the voices hold sway. They seemed to know, to have a direction that he had lost along the way. Left to himself, he may forget to eat or to sleep. The voices told him to do it, even if they laughed when he did.

He could remember nothing after he had saved the dark-skinned Musketeer's life, coming back to himself with their hand guiding him onto a horse, with one of them at his back. The voices were quiet and he allowed himself to be taken.

Away from the forest; away from the voices.

But the voices went too.

They came in dreams and that night, he dreamt.

oOo

Athos could not sleep.

The new doctor, Lemay, had told him he had a concussion. His shoulder, put back into its socket by Aramis while he was unconscious, hurt like hell still. Worse, was the cough. Lemay said he would bear it for weeks to come and it was exhausting; stealing his breath and constricting his chest. He had passed the last two days with the company of Serge and Treville, for which he was grateful; one bringing him food and wine (unbeknown to Aramis, who would not approve), the other wanting his opinions and thoughts.

There were three Musketeers in the large Infirmary room beyond; all bed-bound. He was grateful for that, as he discouraged visitors and pale conversation but he looked forward to his brother's return, any day now. Outside his window, the day was fading as he settled back; the light from one candle the only illumination in the small room he inhabited.

Just as his eyes closed, his door swung open and Aramis's head appeared.

"Are you asleep, mon ami?"

Normally, he may have countered with a sarcastic reply, but he was genuinely pleased to see his friend; more so when Porthos and d'Artagnan pushed their way into the room.

"Come," he replied instead, pulling himself carefully up. "Please, feel free to regale me with stories of your adventures. My mind sleeps and needs stimulation."

It was then he noticed the stranger who stood behind them.

Seeing him looking past them, Aramis stepped aside.

"This is Bernier, Athos. He saved Porthos's life today in a skirmish but received a head wound for his trouble. We have offered him a bed for the night."

Bernier and Athos exchanged a look and Athos tilted his head.

"You have my thanks, Monsieur," he said to the man. "Porthos is our dear brother and we would be lost without him."

Porthos broke out into a wide grin. It was not often that Athos voiced his feelings but when he did, it was heart-warming.

"You're feelin' unseasonably sentimental," Porthos said, basking in the glow of Athos's words.

"Perhaps I have had time to think on it of late," Athos murmured.

Athos looked again at Bernier. The man had a vacant look about him.

"Aramis, I believe Porthos's saviour needs his bed," he said quietly.

Aramis quickly turned and ushered Bernier backwards and away to a spare bed, next to Joubert, one of the three resident Musketeers, who were settling down to sleep.

oOo

Having settled Bernier, Aramis returned and sat down next to Athos. Porthos and d'Artagnan settled on chairs that had previously been brought into the room when Athos was in need of watching throughout the night. Thankfully, those days were gone.

"How are you feeling, my friend?" Aramis said, while assessing Athos quickly, taking in his still-pale complexion and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He had already noted his voice still had a rasp and the lines around his eyes indicated an amount of pain that still tormented him.

Athos thought for a few moments, ruminating on his exact wording as Aramis would pick up on any attempt to hoodwink.

"I have not slept well; I still have this damnable cough and my head feels as if the blacksmith has used it for his anvil," he replied.

Aramis laughed.

"Well, that is very succinct," he replied, exchanging a grin with Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"It pays to be honest when I am at a disadvantage. I have learned that of late," Athos replied. "But I am glad to see you all safely returned. Now, tell me of your battle."

And so the three told him a high tale of their skirmish; drawing a smile from him on occasion when he suspected embellishment. At the mention of Bernier's part, however, Athos's smile faded somewhat, but they did not notice.

Aramis's eyes fell on Athos's bedside table and at the cup placed on the empty plate.

"You have been eating well?"

"Tolerably."

"And, wine, I see?"

"Only a little. It would have been rude to refuse Serge," Athos replied.

Aramis picked up the plate and stood.

As he did so, Athos was caught up in a coughing fit which left him lying back on his pillows, exhausted.

They fussed around him but eventually, he pushed their hands away.

d'Artagnan took his leave a little while later, intent on sleeping in his room at the Bonacieux's, secure in the knowledge that Athos was out of danger. Porthos walked him to the archway, before clapping him on the shoulder and wishing him a good night; a smirk on his face.

Meanwhile, Aramis made up some herbal tea for Athos, with honey and lemon, as Lemay had suggested. At the last moment, he included a sleeping draught. He would face Athos's wrath in the morning. Right now, his brother needed sleep.

As it turned out, that was also a mistake.

oOo

 _At first, the voices had spurred him on, as he cut and slashed his way through the Huguenots. So much blood. He stood still for a moment as he watched it soak into the sand at his feet._

" _Kill!" a voice suddenly said, but there was no-one there. Exhaustion, he presumed._

" _Still!" the voice of reason came, and he hesitated._

" _Kill!" another voice cried, confusing him._

" _Leave." The second voice came back._

 _He intended to argue that that was impossible, but other voices cut through and drowned the quiet one._

 _All in his head. He reached up and his fingers tangled in his hair._

 _But as the voices did not stop, he did argue and from that day, when dozens died at his hand, the voices would not leave him be._

 _They would not let him sleep._

 _They slowly took his mind._

oOo

The howling began in the middle of the night.

Screams woke Aramis and Porthos, who were sleeping close by, down the corridor. Pulling on breeches, they rushed from the room.

Two shots woke Treville, who was working late in his office. He was on his balcony in moments, detecting that the awful sounds were coming from the Infirmary.

The three men met at the door to the large room.

Unusually, it was locked.

Porthos put his shoulder to it, but it did not yield.

Aramis left, running around the back of the building to the two windows on the other side, but he found them shuttered and barred. Peering through a chink, he reared back in shock. He could see a long bright streak on the wall opposite the window.

Blood.

Just then, another shot rang out, blowing a hole in the framework next to his head. He threw himself down and crawled out of the way.

More screams chilled his blood.

He was unarmed, and so, cursing, he made his way quickly back to the room he shared with Porthos and grabbed both their weapon belts, before running down the corridor back to Porthos and Treville who were awaiting his return, having expected him to open the door from the inside for them to gain access.

"What the hell's going on?" Treville said, staring at the door.

"Someone's gone berserk," Aramis replied, handing Porthos his weapons.

Just then, a musket ball hit the door from the other side. It did not go through, the thickness being such that they were thus protected, but they stepped quickly back.

The screaming had stopped but the noise on the other side of the door continued, as furniture was thrown around.

"Bernier," Aramis whispered, for he was the unknown quantity in the room on the other side of the damaged door.

"Get these hinges off," Treville ordered, looking over his shoulder to Porthos.

"If we do that, he will kill them," Aramis replied urgently, his eyes wide.

"He may have done that already," Treville said; his voice low and ragged.

oOo

They removed one set of hinges as stealthily as they could and carefully pulled the skewed door open.

A truly dreadful sight awaited them.

There was blood everywhere; on sheets, on walls and across the floor.

One of the Musketeers, Joubert, was obviously dead, his throat cut, which accounted for the amount of blood. One had been shot in the shoulder and the other had stab wounds.

There was no sign of Bernier. His bed was empty; the twisted sweat-soaked sheets tossed onto the floor.

Aramis quickly crossed himself and made the sign of the cross on Joubert's forehead, before pulling a sheet over him.

Treville checked the two injured patients, ensuring they were both unconscious but alive.

"Athos," Aramis whispered urgently, turning to the closed door of his room. "I drugged him."

"My God," Treville said, beside him, levelling his pistol at the door. "Then he is helpless."

Porthos was the first to move. He reached out and took hold of the handle of the door and pulled in a breath. Turning the handle, he pushed.

The door swung open.

The room was empty.

Moving into the room, they stared at the bed. Like the others, the sheets were strewn on the floor. Crouching, Aramis picked up a corner.

"Oh no," he whispered. "What have I done?"

The shutters were open on the window; the sill streaked with blood.

Treville and Porthos inched forward and stood on each side, pinning themselves against the wall. Aramis was still crouched on the floor, running the sheet through his fingers. There was no blood evident on the linen. He drew some small comfort from it. But Athos had obviously been manhandled through the open window and, in an unconscious state; he would be powerless to avoid any rough handling.

In the yard, Musketeers were gathering, alerted by the noise but unsure from where it came, until they saw Treville and Porthos at the window. Treville signalled the men to stand down. Bernier must be around somewhere and he did not want to warn or disturb the man who had Athos in his grip.

Treville's eyes scanned the perimeter wall, and the guard pointed silently down at the mess.

Shouting for some of the men to take care of Joubert and the injured, Treville silently pointed at Aramis and Porthos to follow him to the mess.

As quietly as they could, they crept upon the door and Treville placed his fingers gently on the handled and pushed it open. Inside the mess, it was dark, but two figures could be seen at the back of the room.

Bernier had Athos, whose arm is bleeding, soaking his shirt sleeve. He was barely conscious and Aramis felt a dreadful pang of remorse that he had given him the sleeping draught. His current condition was as much down to the drug as to his new injury.

Bernier had dumped Athos onto a bench at a nearby table. He was slumped on the table which was serving to hold him upright. Bernier's hand was on the back of his neck and he held a knife in his other hand.

Even in the dark, Aramis's keen eyes could see that Athos's shirt was covered in blood.

On further inspection, however, it became apparent that the majority came from Bernier, whose hands and shirt were soaked through from his foul deeds.

All that could be heard was Bernier ,muttering angrily to himself, and Athos's harsh breathing.

"Bernier," Treville said quietly, but there was no response. Bernier was standing quietly staring down at his fingers, now tangled in Athos's dishevelled hair.

Dressed only in nightshirt and braies, Athos was starting to shiver. In the dead of night, the mess was not heated.

Porthos, never a patient man, was building up a head of steam.

They had left Athos in a warm bed, in good spirits, having turned a corner at last. Could this new ordeal bring about the effect that Aramis had so feared?

A distant toll from Notre Dame indicated that time was ticking by.

One consolation was that Athos's arm did not appear to have been sliced with a knife. It was a tear in his sleeve, not a cut; probably obtained when he was dragged or pushed through the window. It appeared to still be bleeding, but sluggishly.

He also appeared to be regaining his senses somewhat. The sleeping draught was wearing off with all the enforced activity and cold.

"What is going on?" he ground out, attempting to shift out of Bernier's grip. His movements were weak and uncoordinated however and only served to bring Bernier's attention fully back to him.

Bernier's fingers tightened in his captive's hair and he brutally pulled Athos's head back.

Athos grimaced at the sudden harsh treatment but he opened his eyes at last. He could only see the ceiling though, and did not initially recognise it.

"Where is this?" he murmured thickly, before a coughing fit overtook him. Bernier did not release his grip though and Athos struggled to pull air into his distended throat, tears leaking from his eyes at the effort.

"Take care!" Aramis shouted, but Bernier did not appear to hear.

When he did speak, it was in an entirely different voice.

" _Who is Bernier_?" the voice simpered.

"What the Devil is this?" Treville murmured, more to himself, as he took a step forward.

Bernier loosened his hold but lifted his knife.

" _Kill the Musketeer. Slice his throat_!" the voice whined.

Athos's eyes, swimming with unshed tears wrought from his effort to breathe, found Aramis.

Aramis shook his head minutely, silently imploring Athos to hold still. Taking in Porthos and Treville, Athos closed his eyes and then opened them; indicating compliance.

Bernier pushed his head back down onto the table, his hand now resting heavily on the back of his head. The hand with the knife fell back to his side.

Treville, Aramis and Porthos collectively sighed in relief.

It was very obvious that this was a standoff with a very unpredictable individual.

Serge and his kitchen boy were due in a short while to light the ovens and begin baking. This needed to end, before more lives were lost. Serge was unpredictable; this was his domain and he would not take kindly to this invasion. An old soldier, his instincts could possibly kick in and Treville feared it would not go well.

Treville's order for his men outside in the yard to stand down was holding and he trusted someone was tending to the wounded, but the situation in the mess was becoming dire.

Bernier was now muttering and appeared to be having a conversation with two unseen people.

Treville looked sideways at Aramis and Porthos, before straightening and taking a step forward.

"Soldier!" he suddenly barked at Bernier, "Stand. Down."

Bernier instantly responded, straightening and raising his head sharply to stare into Treville's grey blue eyes.

For one moment, they thought he would release Athos, but it was not to be.

" _Do not listen. He is a Hugenot!."_

" _No! He is a Musketeer, and he seeks to deceive!"_

It was Bernier talking, but in strange opposing voices. It sent shivers down their backs as they watched it play out.

Aramis held his breath, aware of Porthos; rigid beside him.

Suddenly Bernier grabbed Athos around the throat and forced him to stand.

Athos came awake, but Bernier's arm around his throat held him firm and he struggled to draw breath once more.

Athos stared at Porthos. He had no idea what was going on. His eyes were like glass. He had no control over his limbs and there was no way he could extricate himself from Bernier's grip.

Porthos's curled his hands into fists at his side, desperate for action, but wary of Bernier.

Bernier was now standing, Athos in front of him, held by Bernier's arm tight around his throat. He was staring at Treville, Aramis and Porthos, who were frozen to the spot; too afraid of rushing the man, who was once more brandishing his knife close to Athos's face.

Treville had been watching Bernier carefully and seen how his eyes flicked to the right and then to the left depending upon which voice seemed to be talking to him.

He took another quick step forward and suddenly shouted,

"Soldier! You are wanted on the front line!"

At the look of confusion and uncertainty that shifted across Bernier's face Treville knew he had found his ultimate fear. This was a soldier who had seen too much to bear; hopefully the prospect of further military combat was enough to undo him.

Bernier sagged against the door at his back, his arm tightening around Athos's throat. Athos was choking, his face no longer pale; his eyes beginning to roll back.

Suddenly, the door swung open at Bernier's back and d'Artagnan was behind him. He had a sword in one hand and a large iron pan in the other. He raised his sword and was about to run Bernier through when Aramis and Porthos both shouted "NO!" in unison, afraid the sword would pass through Bernier and enter Athos's body.

Bernier continued to stare at Treville and at the commotion, his arm minutely relaxed as he brought his knife up.

The moment Athos felt the iron grip ease, with his last ounce of strength, he slammed his head back into Bernier's face.

At that moment, d'Artagan brought the pan crashing down onto the back of his skull. The grip tightened once more as they both dropped like stones; Bernier dead and Athos unconscious, having knocked himself out in his last ditch effort at survival.

But it was not over yet.

Treville, Aramis and Porthos rushed forward. Bernier's arm was still clamped tightly around Athos's throat and he was beginning to turn from red to purple.

Porthos fell on Bernier and grabbed his arm.

"He's dead!" Aramis shouted.

For a moment Porthos thought he meant Athos and he howled, pulling Bernier's arm back with such force there was a sickening snap as a bone broke. The arm flopped back and Porthos lost his balance and fell backward. d'Artagnan and Aramis pulled Athos free, as Treville helped Porthos gain his feet.

Aramis rolled Athos onto his back and dropped to his knees beside him. He placed his palms on Athos's chest and pushed down, forcing air into his friend's lungs.

"Come on, Athos! Come on, my friend," he said, as he concentrated on his task.

Everyone held their breath, and then suddenly, Athos took a ragged breath, followed by another. Gradually his breathing steadied and his complexion paled, but he did not wake.

"You would have to use your head," Aramis muttered, feeling around the back of his head. "As if one concussion is not enough."

oOo

"This is my fault," Aramis said, looking at Porthos, who had pulled Athos into his arms. "I should never have given him the sleeping draught."

"If Athos had not been drugged," Treville replied, "he would have fought. I doubt he would have survived. An insane man is a fierce opponent and Athos was not well."

Aramis rubbed his hand over his face. He barely accepted Treville's assurances, but Porthos reached out and put his hand on his shoulder.

"You thought you were doing the right thing, Aramis," Porthos said.

"If he had died ..." Aramis whispered.

"But 'e didn't,"

"One of our brothers died though," Aramis countered.

"A terrible thing," Treville said. "But you were not to know."

"We brought Bernier here!" Aramis persisted.

"And according to you," Treville replied firmly, "Porthos would be dead if Bernier had not intervened in the forest."

"I need to make arrangements," Treville said then, "Take care of Athos."

Treville crossed to d'Artagnan and stood in front of him.

"You disobeyed an order," he said curtly.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Treville smiled.

"Thank you, son."

D'Artagnan deflated and nodded.

"Is he going to be alright?" he said, looking at Athos.

"Hopefully, he will be glad to be alive," Aramis replied, smiling faintly now.

"He's gonna be mad though," Porthos said.

Treville raised an eyebrow at Porthos.

"He's gonna have to stay in the infirmary a bit longer."

"The infirmary is closed until further notice," Treville replied. "I will arrange for Joubert and the wounded to be taken elsewhere to be cared for. And I need to get that Infirmary door replaced. There is no need for it to be so damned heavy. This is not a prison."

"What of Athos?" Aramis asked wearily.

"Take him to my office," his Captain replied, "I will find another bed, this night. But I doubt I will sleep."

Just then, there was a commotion and Serge came through the door behind them, having come on duty to prepare the morning's food.

"What's goin' on?!" he grumbled loudly. "What are you all doin' in my mess in the middle of the night?"

Looking down at Bernier's body, he squinted up at them.

"Who's this?"

"That, Serge, is a very good question," Treville replied quietly.

oOo

It appeared that d'Artagnan had appeared at the Garrison, alerted by some sixth sense, and had found his way across the roof and down the wide chimney into the kitchen.

What made him pick up the iron pan, he did not know, as he had his sword un-sheathed. It could have acted as distraction, he had told them later; thrown or brought loudly against a wall. He had stood in the yard with the men and had grown impatient with the stand-off and lack of orders. He had seen the condition of the infirmary as the injured were tended. His heart had nearly seized when he looked at the still body beneath the sheet, before he remembered Athos had the room at the end. As he gazed on Athos's empty bed and open window, he was driven to do something. He had not personally heard Treville's order to stand down and had considered that it hardly applied to him, in absentia.

And so he left the courtyard, making his way behind the building to the rear of the mess. He had paused at Serge's locked and bolted entrance to the kitchen; away from the sight of his fellow Musketeers, who were too intent on guarding the front of the building to see their younger brother making his stealthy way toward the imminent threat. He had climbed onto the overhanging lintel and up onto the roof, before climbing down the chimney. Daring to open the door by a sliver, he had seen the stand-off and had unsheathed his sword, reaching for the iron pan as an after-thought.

oOo

Athos lay unconscious in Treville's bed for almost two days.

Treville worked quietly at his desk, forbidding anyone to approach his door, apart from Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan.

Aramis feared for his friend's life after the second hit that his head had taken and would not leave his side. The sound of rosary beads being fed through agitated fingers became the backdrop to Treville's administrative work.

Finally, Athos woke to the sound of the Musketeer gun salute for the dead. Slowly turning his head, he saw Aramis sitting at his side.

"Joubert," Aramis said quietly. "Our brothers are honouring him."

Too confused to understand, Athos raised his hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

"It's good to see you awake, brother. We feared we would be firing our muskets for you for a while there," he said, his tone flat; none of his usual humour evident.

Athos watched as Aramis leaned over and took up a pitcher of ale and poured a small amount into an earthenware cup.

"Drink," he said quietly, helping him to raise his head a little, "I will tell you all later, when the others return from their sad duty."

Later, they all gathered by Athos once more to explain what had happened.

Bernier, they told him, had been buried earlier in a corner of the Paris cemetery, in the grave of an unknown soldier. A sick man, no-one had wanted to condemn him as a murderer. He had saved Porthos's life in a lucid moment, after all.

"We brought him here," d'Artagnan said; still unable to believe how close the Garrison had come to mass fatalities. Why Bernier had taken Athos in the way he had, no one could guess, but that act had possibly saved a wider rampage.

"I wonder who he was," Porthos said in a moment of quiet.

"We may never know," Aramis replied.

Porthos poured ale and passed it around.

"You acted with honour," Athos finally said, having listened carefully and picked up on their tone. "Musketeers extend the hand of friendship to those who are hurt. You could not have known the state of his mind."

"There was a man beneath the insanity," Porthos agreed, grateful for Bernier's act in saving his life.

Aramis sighed;

"If there is a lesson to be learned here, it is that any future injured visitors intended for our Infirmary are ensured a private room with a guard, until we know better."

"Indeed," Athos murmured as they all fell into silence.

Porthos raised his glass,

"To Joubert"

oOo

Later, Treville joined them and sat behind his desk with a heavy sigh. It was a sad day indeed when they buried one of their own.

"I have news on Bernier," he said quietly then, and they all turned to look at him in expectation.

"I found his military records. It turns out he was a Chief Sergeant in Louis's army. Common-born, he rose through the ranks and distinguished himself at the battle to recapture the ille de Re in '25. Which means he probably saw service at the Seige of La Rochelle in '27.

"We knew he was a soldier, of course, by his demeanour," Aramis replied. "But you know what this means?"

"Yes," Treville replied. "You probably fought alongside him at some point, Aramis."

"My God," Porthos murmured.

"He had an exemplary record," Treville continued, "but they found him standing in the surf one morning and had to pull him out. He was talking in riddles, his eyes wild. He never recovered and he was discharged. Even at the hearing, he was seemingly having conversations with unseen persons."

"So they left 'im to it," Porthos growled, all too aware that the man had been lucid when he had felled the thug threatening him.

"He simply disappeared," Treville said. "Apparently, he had lived in the forest for several years. No-one dare approach him. They said he had the Devil's mark."

"When, in fact, he had merely seen too much to bear," Athos added.

"There but for the grace of God, go we," Aramis said softly.

"With your agreement, Gentlemen," Treville sighed, reaching for his pen. "I will see he has an appropriate headstone."

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

*See previous story: "Storm Damage"


	25. A Quiet Man

**A QUIET MAN**

 **Lemay:**

He had, in his time, been dumped in a horse trough when covered in vomit and locked in a cupboard when his words were not what they wanted to hear.

The King's Musketeers could be a rowdy group of men.

Luckily, he had never been punched.

He was not the King's only physician so he did not visit the Garrison often, but when he did it was always ... interesting.

He had been aware of the Musketeers of course, when he first took up his post, but he had not seen the like.

Here was a band of soldiers who were intimidating, to say the least. To be in a room with them made him self-conscious, for he had always been slight of stature and somewhat timid; preferring the background to the fore.

Once, he had found himself staring up at Porthos, the dark-skinned Musketeer with an imposing scar that indicated a close call at some point in the past. (These men bore many scars and he found himself often wondering how they were acquired; though he did not ask. Lemay was a polite man.) Porthos had glowered at him because he had no sure words for him. d'Artagnan, his friend and youngest brother in arms, was ill and all he could offer was his knowledge. Words of comfort did not come easily to Lemay, for he was a practical man and did not seek to embellish or offer false hope.

It had always been difficult for him to maintain eye contact and that was something that Porthos always demanded.

These men all had different ways about them.

Aramis would sling an arm around him as if they were best friends, not soldier and physician, and whisper conspiratorially to him; informing him of all his brother's quirks and preferences. Lemay would find himself doing his bidding more often than not, although Aramis was always respectful and acknowledged Lemay's skills with an interest that was unusual amongst soldiers. He could work with Aramis though, who was light-hearted and did not demand too much that was beyond Lemay's power to provide; always taking the larger part of the conversation, for which Lemay was grateful, for he was not a verbose man.

d'Artagnan suffered from youth. Impetuous, energetic and difficult to keep still; although always compliant. d'Artagnan was always keen to know what was being done to him; often undoing the very same if not carefully monitored by his elders.

Athos, Treville's Lieutenant, was an entirely different matter.

If Treville was rock; Athos was granite.

When he had first succumbed to that intense green glare, he had berated himself later. It had happened again and again, until Athos was satisfied with what he heard or saw for himself. Eventually, Lemay realised that that was Athos's general demeanour and he wielded it well. Athos did not waste time on pleasantries; although he was always courteous, if curt.

These four men were soldiers, part of Louis XIII's elite guard, but when they were injured and confined to their infirmary they could be ill-tempered, impatient, restless and often, downright difficult. Then, it would take all of Lemay's abilities to not only treat them, but control them. That was when Aramis was useful and if all else failed, Treville could always take the wind out of their sails. Unless it was something they would _not_ concede; then they would not yield and there would be an atmosphere that Lemay would not choose to endure, if it could be helped.

When he had first set foot in the Infirmary, he had been dismayed. It was a well proportioned room, but lacked much in the way of equipment and storage. He had made recommendations and slowly, had introduced them to practices that would help fight infections such as ensuring water was boiled and hands were washed.

Aramis had shown an interest and they had talked, long after he should have returned to the Palace. The King was not amenable to being kept waiting and Rochefort always noticed the slightest fault; tardiness being one of them.

When he had first found himself standing next to these fearsome men, clad in leather and bristling with weaponry, Lemay had found himself reverting to boyhood, and his father's sharp tongue.

He had spent his formative years studying. He had been a studious boy and it was inevitable that he would direct his endeavours toward such a profession. When he had announced that he wished to study medicine, his father had been accommodating but Lemay had detected an air of disappointment. He would have preferred his son to follow the course of a lawyer; an occupation that would secure an adequate, safe lifestyle. Medicine brought with it all manner of threat. He had been proud though, when his son had secured his place at the Sorbonne, who's Principal had, at one point, been Cardinal Richelieu himself. His father had lived to see him obtain his doctorate, but regrettably, not his Royal appointment.

Lemay continued along his gentle path; reading, researching and experimenting. Those who encountered him as their doctor always received the best of care.

He could be swayed, always open to new ideas.

The fearsome Musketeers often swayed him; particularly the brotherhood of Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan. They were a force to be reckoned with when one of them faced a crisis of health. He had settled into an understanding with them, however. He would do his best and they knew that.

He had fallen into an understanding with a group of soldiers who had once been far outside his sphere of understanding. He had saved lives.

Lemay understood vulnerability.

He had watched silently when Athos had risen unsteadily from his sickbed in the main room, gathered his blanket and pillow without a word, and made his way to one of the two small rooms; slamming the door behind him. Athos, he knew by then, did not wish his vulnerability to be laid bare to others. Later, in the dead of night, when Lemay was satisfied that he had done all he could for the man, he had left the door ajar; propping it open - for those who did not wish to be seen were sometimes forgotten. Turning back for one last appraisal, he saw that he was being watched. Both men nodded but did not speak. Lemay was not a commanding man. Athos understood that. Lemay was a man who understood vulnerability, even in the most commanding of men.

Quiet and studious, the very opposite of these men, he did his utmost for them.

If he did not know, he sought knowledge; chasing it down until, armed once more and equal to any warrior, he would continue; satisfied that he had done his best – for that was his only criteria. That was the commonality he had with these men. _There_ was the satisfaction he enjoyed, in helping this group of hard-nosed men. More so than nobles. More so than taciturn, indulged Royalty. This regiment had honour and dignity and yet were human and therefore vulnerable. He would never see them fight, but he saw the consequences; heard their fears, their last words. He heard their banter. Sometimes, he even heard their thanks when he allowed himself to. For _he_ was a vulnerable man, in his own way. He had his own walls, built in a hard world he sometimes did not understand.

Lemay often infuriated an impatient King with his diligence and attention to detail. Other times, Louis would praise him whole-heartedly for the very minor of things. The Palace could be a confusing place where relationships had to be carefully navigated. He was not a political man, caring only for medicine. He went unseen by many of the eligible ladies of the Court, who were bent on a better prospect or a more dynamic man.

He did not see such women, for his mistress was medicine.

He loved from afar though – a red-haired young woman who was kind and gentle and had given a lonely queen much needed companionship.

Lemay sat in the Infirmary now, under the glare of Porthos once more.

"Well?" the big man demanded.

"They are much improved," he replied simply, looking up and once more meeting the fierce, questioning gaze.

Porthos's face broke into a wide smile.

"Did as you told me," he said proudly, giving Lemay a firm nod.

For once, Lemay could maintain eye contact with this brute.

"Well done," he said quietly; steeling himself for a reprimand for being patronising.

But Porthos only puffed out his chest and hummed happily.

"Drink?" he said, suddenly; _amiably_.

Lemay blinked.

"Yes," he replied cautiously, "that would be most welcome."

Lemay stood and followed Porthos out of the Infirmary, turning in the doorway to take a last look at Aramis and Athos, quiet now after a few turbulent days.

Lemay did save lives; sometimes in the most unusual or difficult of circumstances.

oOo

He had passed many milestones and some he would never forget;

The first time he had entered the university;

The first time he had seen a patient; found a cure; saved a life;

The first time he had met the King; and the Inseparables;

The first time he had seen Constance.

Lemay loved a woman who was unattainable but he also loved medicine and he would dedicate the rest of his life to it, for all he was worth; for his fellow man.

oOo

Thanks for reading. More soon.


	26. King of the Castle!

Many thanks to you all for your lovely comments.

Time to lighten the mood a little?

oOo

 **26\. KING OF THE CASTLE!**

 **Porthos, Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan:**

When Porthos woke up, his friends were sitting around him.

They all looked a little ... _dishevelled_.

Athos had a bruise on his face. Aramis had the beginnings of a black eye, and d'Artagnan had a split lip.

Porthos blinked at them. They appeared to be glaring back at him.

"What 'appened to you lot?" Porthos grunted, peering at them sluggishly.

There was a lengthy silence, where they all looked at each other before turning back to Porthos.

"You," Athos replied. "You happened to us."

"Say what?" Porthos replied, his eyes widening. What had he done? He had no recollection.

"Before we tell this tale, I need a drink," Athos growled, pushing his chair back and leaving to find wine.

Porthos took the opportunity to throw back the covers and get out of bed, while d'Artagnan handed him his shirt and breeches. He shuck off his nightshirt. No obvious stitches, no apparent infirmity. He pulled his shirt over his head. The room swam a little but otherwise, he felt alright.

When Athos returned, bearing a tray of cups and a large flagon of wine, Porthos knew that this would not be a short tale. Sighing, he sat on the edge of the cot, his head now beginning to throb slightly.

"Go on then, out with it," he said, looking a little sheepishly at them. "Somethin's obviously 'appened."

Aramis took a deep breath, but Porthos held his hand up;

"Hold on a minute. First, 'ow long have I been 'ere?"

They all looked at each other. Athos nodded and Aramis began;

"Three days," he replied quietly, waiting for the explosion.

"Three days?!" Porthos cried, fulfilling Aramis's expectations.

"Yes," Athos confirmed.

"What the 'ell have I been doin' for three days?!"

"The first day," Athos replied, "You were other there against that wall." He nodded behind him at the wall by the door.

Porthos followed his gaze.

"Wasn't there a cot over there?" Porthos replied.

"There used to be," d'Artagnan replied, under his breath.

"Wait," Porthos said, frowning, "What do you mean, " _The first day I was over there_?"

"As I said," Athos replied patiently, "You were over there with your back to the wall, repelling all who came near you." He rubbed the bruise on his face gently.

"Very effectively, I may add," he added quietly.

"The second day," Aramis continued, "You took to the cot you mentioned. Only not to sleep in it."

"What did I do if I didn't sleep in it?" Porthos queried, very confused now, rubbing his temples.

"You stood on it," Aramis replied, looking at his friend with his one good eye. The other was rapidly closing.

"It was your battlement," d'Artagnan said, as if that explained everything.

"My what?"

"Your battlement," d'Artagnan repeated carefully. "You said you were the King of the Castle and owner of all you surveyed and that we were "usurpers and brigands."

Far from being worried, Porthos burst out laughing.

The others looked at him, passively. Not amused at all.

"You've got to admit," Porthos said, still laughing, and now pulling on his boots. "I've got style."

Silence.

"So ..." he said, after a little thought, "how did you get ...?" he waved his hand at each of them; indicating their injuries.

"You held the vantage point," Athos replied simply.

"And you were armed," Aramis added, looking as if he did not wish to discuss it further.

Porthos wanted to discuss it further;

"Armed with what, exactly?"

d'Artagnan side-glanced his two brothers, who both grimaced at him.

"Walnuts," he muttered.

Silence once more.

"Walnuts?" Porthos growled, stopping mid-way in folding down the cuff on the top of his boot.

"Very large walnuts," Athos replied, imperiously. "Complete with shell."

Porthos stared at them, his mouth slightly open.

"It was _his_ fault," Athos added, in his most aristocratic voice, pointing at d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan squirmed in his seat.

"I was only trying to be of help," he muttered, "Walnuts are good for you. I thought he'd like them when he woke up."

Porthos smiled and nodded at his younger brother.

"If you eat them, I would tend to agree," Aramis replied, gingerly prodding the bruised skin beneath his eye and wincing, "but in this case, soft fruit would have been less painful."

"Shrapnel, you thought it was shrapnel that you were throwing," Athos enlightened Porthos further, who was now beginning to look a little sorry for his friends.

"It could have been worse," Aramis said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yes, but only because we managed to disarm him," Athos added smoothly.

"Disarm me from what?" Porthos asked.

"Apples," Athos replied. "They were to be your back-up weapon of choice."

Porthos thought for a moment, weighing it all up.

"Yeah, I can see how apples would be more painful than walnuts," Porthos ventured, but now there was a smirk back on his face.

"And by then," Athos intoned, "you were shouting for boiling oil."

"A full scale battle then?" Porthos grunted, chewing his bottom lip.

"Oh, absolutely," Athos replied, pouring wine.

"Anyway, it worked," Aramis said.

"We retreated, Aramis," Athos said, looking scathingly at Aramis.

"To lick our wounds," d'Artagnan added, looking at the floor.

"Sorry," Porthos said.

"So, once we effectively surrendered," Aramis said, watching Athos for any counter-comment, "You were much more amenable."

"Yes, your terms were very favourable," Athos said, downing his wine in one.

"Do you think so?" d'Artagnan frowned at Athos.

Athos turned his full glare on d'Artagnan, making the young man avert his eyes and take a sip of his wine.

"Giving up all claims to the cot ... sorry, _castle;_ Forfeit of each of our weapons ..." Athos began;

"Whoa, hang on," Porthos stopped him, holding up his finger. "What weapons?"

"Not what you think," Aramis replied, holding both hands up.

"I had a chair," Athos said, nodding at the pile of wood in the corner. "You demanded its destruction."

"But he did think it was a battering ram," Aramis cut in. "In his favour," he added.

"True," Athos conceded.

"And what weapon did you 'ave d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked, looking at a very quiet d'Artagnan.

"An apple," d'Artagnan muttered, over the rim of his cup.

"Oh, so it alright for _you_ to have apples, but I only get walnuts?!" Porthos said indignantly.

"I only had one apple!" d'Artagnan huffed. "It was my breakfast," he muttered.

"So where is it now?" Porthos asked, eyebrows raised; looking around the room.

"You ate it," d'Artagnan replied, with a glare that would outdo Athos.

Porthos huffed.

"What about you?" Porthos asked Aramis, sweetly.

Aramis looked away, trying to gather his self-respect.

"I had a roll of bandages," he muttered quietly.

Porthos laughed. "A roll of bandages?! What were you thinkin' of doin' with a roll of bandages?"

"Bandages make quite good bonds," Aramis replied, sniffing; managing to meet his eyes with a determined look.

Porthos considered. "Alright, I'll give you that," he said, remembering how they had tied Athos to his bed that time.

Athos looked away, obviously remembering the incident as well.

"So, I won?" Porthos said, reaching out and taking the wine that Athos was holding. Athos looked down at his empty hand and sighed.

"I told you, we surrendered," he replied, glaring as Porthos drank his wine. "Who knows what would have happened if we had continued?"

"Yeah, right," Porthos laughed.

"So, where's the cot now?" Porthos asked, suddenly looking at the empty space against the wall where it once stood.

"Your "castle," Athos replied "Is in the yard."

"You wished to do extensive improvements in order to deter any further "threats," he added. "But, in essence, you broke it."

"Oh. How?" Porthos asked, not sure if he wanted to know.

"By jumping up and down on it in jubilation at your "glorious victory," Athos answered succinctly.

"So, it's ...?"

"Utterly destroyed, beyond repair, and now awaiting render into firewood."

"Which _you_ will be doing, incidentally, now you are back with us," Athos finished.

"Me?"

"It's your castle," Aramis said, smiling now. "You broke it, not us."

"We wouldn't dare," d'Artagnan said, remembering the fierce defence Porthos had put up.

"Hang on," Porthos said, standing up now. "What was wrong with me?"

It had taken some time, but they were there now. Relieved that the discussion was moving on, Aramis reached out to pour himself wine.

"We think you were drugged," Aramis replied, patting Porthos on the arm.

"We visited the last hostelry you were known to have been drinking in. The owner admitted he had slipped something into your drink because he thought you heard something you should not have."

"Like what?"

"Apparently," Aramis continued, "He was not being entirely honest in how he obtained his alcohol stocks. He had quite a racket going. He had a team who stole the stock from other inns on the road, before it was delivered. Once in his establishment, he watered it down."

"Less than honourable," Athos added, before turning to Aramis;

"Have we been there?" he suddenly degressed; concerned they may have paid for watered down wine.

"I think you would have noticed, mon ami," Aramis replied and Athos nodded; content in his friend's assessment.

"By the time you got back here, you were definitely not yourself," Athos finished the tale.

"Nasty reaction," Aramis confirmed, shaking his head.

Porthos considered, angry now. "I'm gonna pay this man a visit," he growled.

"No need, my friend," Aramis replied. "He has been dealt with. Assault on a King's Musketeer and engagement in dubious practices."

"And being in possession of dubious substances," d'Artagnan added.

"Quite," Athos said.

"Good," Porthos muttered.

"So no pillow fightin' then?" he suddenly said, looking around the room for evidence of battle.

"No, because that would have been undignified," Athos replied.

Porthos sighed.

"Alright," he said eventually, "Better go and chop that wood. Where's the axe?" he added, rolling up his sleeves.

"We don't expect you to do it on your own, mon ami," Aramis said, throwing an arm around his large friend.

"S'alright, I insist. It's the least I can do," he said, casting them a sympathetic look.

As he crossed the room, he bent and picked something up. Turning, he held it up triumphantly between his finger and thumb, grinning.

It was a walnut.

They all ducked instinctively.

Porthos crushed it in his hand and flipped the nut into his mouth.

"Walnuts and apples," he said to himself.

Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter, before throwing open the door and striding off down the corridor.

They could hear his laughter all the way down to the outer door, as they listened to his receding footsteps.

"Can you imagine the damage he would have done with a few melons?" Aramis sighed, as they listened as Porthos continued to laugh all the way out of the infirmary, slamming the outer door behind him.

"It does not bear thinking about," Athos said quietly, as peace finally descended.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	27. To Trust Again

**27\. TO TRUST AGAIN**

 **Treville and Athos:**

Watching from his balcony as his men sparred and laughed in the bright sunshine below, Treville looked toward three in particular and cast his mind back a year or two; remembering a time when the brotherhood he had watched grow may never have happened.

" _They are waiting to see you ..."_

" _No."_

 _Treville sighed. There would be no persuading him this day he thought._

" _Then I will leave you."_

 _As he made his way to the door, Athos spoke again._

" _No."_

 _Treville turned; his hand on the door handle._

" _Stay."_

 _Treville raised his eyebrows._

" _Please."_

 _Treville rubbed a hand over his face and walked back, taking a seat next to the cot that Athos had been confined to since the three had returned. When he looked up, he was struck by the combination of sadness and confusion in Athos's eyes._

" _And how will that look? You deny them, but keep me here."_

 _In answer, Athos threw an arm over his eyes and drew up his knees beneath the blanket. A firm barrier indeed._

 _Treville waited but no words came._

" _You wear Porthos's shirt and Aramis's stitches," he ventured. His fingers traced the pattern of various patches sewn into the blanket, while he waited once more._

 _In response, Athos threw his arm down and pushed himself up. Lying on his back always made him feel vulnerable and Treville's gaze had a way of pinning one in place; wherever one happened to be._

" _Why cannot you accept comfort, Athos?" Treville said then. "Do you not see these things as comfort? They have both given you something. One, the shirt off his back and the other, his skill."_

" _And I am grateful," Athos said quietly, though his eyes remained closed._

" _But you will not see them. Or is it that you do not want_ _ **them**_ _to see you?"_

 _Athos shifted uncomfortably._

" _Perhaps," he admitted quietly._

" _I had hoped things were changing for you," the Captain said._

 _An uncomfortable silence fell between them._

" _I am not good at this," Athos finally replied, opening his eyes at last, but looking only at the ceiling above him._

 _Treville waited. Perhaps this was the day that he would break down Athos's walls. Even a little; he would take that._

" _Not good at what?" Treville asked him, remaining perfectly still._

" _At platitudes," came the response; barely audible._

 _Treville searched his face._

" _You think that is what they offer you?"_

 _Athos sighed._

" _No," he said softly, finally turning his eyes on his Captain. "It is what_ _ **I**_ _offer them."_

 _Athos held Treville's concerned gaze, before drawing in a ragged breath;_

" _And they are worth so much more."_

 _Treville continued to stare at him, before leaning forward._

" _So are you, son."_

 _Athos ran a hand quickly over his eyes, leaving his hand there once more._

 _Treville reached across and took hold of it, pulling it away and placing it gently back onto his chest. He held his own hand there, feeling Athos's fingers beneath his curling tightly into the sheet, as his inner battle continued._

 _Treville huffed out a breath and sat back._

" _There is a time in every man's life," the older man began carefully, "when he must decide how he will live it. Whether he will do so in the company of his fellow man, or alone."_

" _My life was chosen," Athos replied. "The decision was made the moment I was born."_

" _But that decision was not yours. Your life was mapped out for you."_

" _As it should be," Athos replied, but without conviction. "It is the way,"_

" _But then, it was taken from you. This is a new beginning. Perhaps a different man will emerge."_

 _Treville did not know all of Athos's story, but he knew a man fallen from grace. A man brought this low by a quick turn of events beyond his control._

" _Let them in, Athos," Treville said quietly; trusting Athos to know the true meaning of what he said._

" _How?!" Athos replied almost immediately, as if he was expecting the request._

" _How what?" Treville replied, confused._

" _If I do as you ask, how do I maintain it?"_

 _Treville understood then, and gentled his approach; thinking about the two confused men standing outside in the corridor._

" _I think you will find that the two in question will not require that of you," Treville smiled._

" _I have nothing in common with them," Athos countered; his barriers beginning to rise once more._

" _You have more than you think."_

 _Athos frowned and looked away._

" _They are out there, worrying how to reach you," Treville said._

 _Athos stared at the door._

" _What are_ _ **you**_ _worrying about, son?"_

" _The same," Athos replied but a smile tugged at his lips, and Treville was heartened enough to continue on his tenuous path._

" _Friendship is a journey, Athos. After you have taken the first steps, you will find that true friendship needs no formalities. Nor platitudes. It will seek its own level. Understanding will follow, if you allow it. And in years to come, it will be the thing that sustains you. Don't turn away from it before the journey has begun."_

 _Athos suddenly looked lost._

" _Have you never had friends?" Treville continued, gently._

" _Why would I?"_

 _Treville swallowed a lump that had risen, unbidden, in his throat at that sad but earnest response. He doubted he would ever forget that reply._

 _Athos was watching him. Treville looked quickly away, not wanting to add to his burden._

 _For surely, that was that this was. The prospect of friendship was alien to the struggling man before him and two of his most gregarious soldiers obviously wanted to rectify that. But how do you make a man see he is worthy? Especially one as damaged as this one; who does not understand the language of friendship, nor perhaps see its necessity?_

" _I have always found," Athos said then, "That when people make such overtures to me, they always want something."_

" _And what do you think they want? Treville replied, nodding toward the door._

 _A long pause ensued._

" _Nothing, it seems. That is why it is so vexing."_

 _He looked up. "They have only shown me kindness."_

" _Is it so difficult to understand?"_

" _Yes!" Athos said, angry now. "I am damned! What do they see in a man such as I?"_

" _Perhaps they recognise something."_

" _In me?"_

" _And in themselves."_

 _Treville waited once more, while Athos thought, before he pursed his lips and tried again;_

" _I cannot imagine what your life was like before, but you have stumbled across something entirely different here, lad. Work with it; however strange it may feel, and it will work for you. One day, you will look up, and see that it fits."_

 _Treville paused, before leaning forward earnestly._

" _Do not doubt me; I have seen more damaged men than you. Not many, I grant you," he smiled, and Athos could feel his own lips tugging. It was a strange feeling._

" _Now, granted Aramis takes up every bird with a broken wing," Treville continued, "but Porthos has decided that he has need of your company and that is a precious thing, believe me, for he does not trust easily."_

 _They fell silent then, both men lost in their own thoughts, before Treville finally patted the blanket and stood, his leathers creaking._

" _What happened out there?" Treville asked, as he poured water and helped Athos to drink; before taking his seat once more._

 _Athos's hand shook, as he held the cup; whether from pain or emotion, Treville did not know._

" _What is it that you continue to find so difficult to comprehend?"_

" _They saved my life," Athos replied eventually. "They were very determined."_

" _I find that determination is a useful trait in a soldier," Treville huffed in amusement. "And one day, you will repay the favour," he added simply; as if it was the easiest of concepts to grasp._

" _You still want me?" Athos said then, looking up at him with a frown._

" _Why wouldn't I?" Treville asked, taken aback._

" _The mission was a failure."_

" _Not entirely," Treville smiled._

 _Athos raised an eyebrow._

" _My men came back," Treville said._

 _Athos tilted his head, though he still did not look convinced. What would it take to make this man understand?_

" _You are not expendable, Athos," Treville continued, firmly. "None of my men are. I would take it as a favour if you would remember that."_

" _Yes, Captain," Athos whispered._

" _Life can be cruel. It marks us all eventually. You cannot make yourself invisible Athos; no matter how you try. Nor can you stay lost forever."_

 _One lone tear tracked down Athos's face. He did not attempt to wipe it away._

" _I cannot tell you how this will go," Treville was saying, "I can only say "have a little faith," - in them, and in yourself. One foot in front of the other; that's how it goes."_

 _Athos sat with his head down; his face obscured by his hair. He looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders._

" _Tell me, did you learn to swim as a boy?" Treville said gently._

 _Athos raised his head._

" _Yes?" he replied; not knowing where this new line was going._

" _Well," Treville replied. "Friendship is like that."_

 _Treville had watched then as his soldier's face told its own untold story and his own heart hitched as he quietly held his breath._

 _Athos told him later that he did not understand what Treville had meant until he suddenly remembered one particular hot summer._

 _His father had thrown him into the pond. He sank immediately, before thrashing to the surface and seeing his father had taken a step back. He was on his own. He kicked out and managed a few wild strokes, before sinking again. It seemed to go on forever and he tired; wanting to give up. But he continued as there was something to be had at the end of it. Not his father's approval, but something for himself. Something worthwhile that may save his life one day. And, he did not want to die there, in the family pond. Then, he stayed afloat and with a few hasty strokes, he made his way back to the bank. His father was already striding away._

 _Another lesson taught, no matter how roughly. But now, he had something to build on. One day soon, he would swim across the lake._

" _Shall I let them in?" Treville had asked quietly, bringing him back._

 _Athos stared at the door, as if it held all his answers. At that moment, it must have felt like a fearsome threshold indeed._

 _Athos turned his eyes to him and there was something new there. Something that Treville had not seen before;_

 _Trust._

" _Yes," Athos replied, looking up at him. "Please do."_

And so, Treville remembered. Still standing on his balcony and lost in the memory, he had crossed the room and opened the door and waved the two men still standing there inside.

oOo

Thereafter, things changed. It had slowly dawned on Athos that he wanted friendship, that he may even crave it. He may have craved it for many years. He took those first steps, but on his own terms. He allowed them in. And once allowed, Aramis and Porthos did not give up. They did not give in.

In fact, Treville believed that Athos had not so much as let Porthos and Aramis in, than they had beaten down the door.

They had swept him along. They exhausted and exasperated him. They amazed and baffled him. They brought out the best in him. And he, them.

Treville had watched those first steps and subsequent journey unfold.

As their Captain, they exhausted, exasperated, amazed and baffled him too.

Watching them now, Treville realised, that he had needed this too. He had long ago decided he would not live _his_ life alone, and he had enjoyed every infuriating, wonderful moment as their brotherhood had formed; firm and true.

But there was work to be done now, and so he straightened and his eyes flicked over each one of his Inseparables.

Leaning over, he barked the five words that they were, by now, used to;

"You three! Up here. Now!"

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	28. Runaway

Many thanks for following these little talks; I appreciate all your reviews and comments. This one's a request from Deana.

 **28\. RUNAWAY**

 **Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagan:**

It had been a pleasant morning, as the four friends patrolled the market place. They moved from under the covered colonnade, skirting the last pillar toward a group of market stalls at the edge of the main cobbled street. The street itself, although fairly wide, was narrowed by crates of goods placed along its length in places and sacks of vegetables and grain stacked protruding from beneath the wooden tables.

d'Artagnan and Porthos were in the front, watching the throng of people mingling among the stalls, with Athos and Aramis following along some yards behind.

Aramis fell back a few steps as a stallholder held out an apple for him; grinning a toothless smile. He removed his hat and gave her a bow, making her cackle with delight. She threw him the apple in response to his charm, which he caught deftly with one hand. As he did so, he noticed a young boy, standing ahead of him at a baker's table; barely tall enough to see over the top. He seemed familiar and he took a step forward to catch up with Athos, when his attention was caught by a woman's cry somewhere behind.

Almost too late, he heard the noise behind him, as it grew louder.

Acting on impulse, he reached out his left hand and pushed Athos aside, while at the same time scooping the boy up with this right arm and throwing himself and the boy aside.

There were screams and the sound of hooves on cobbles, followed by the loud rush as the sheer power of the black horse plummeted past; obviously broken free and wild with anxiety.

The blaze of black sheen flew past them, as the huge horse, snorting and throwing its large head as it careered down the street, barrelled along, causing people to scream and jump out of the way.

d'Artagnan and Porthos just had time to pull a fortunate couple aside and throw themselves out of harm's way as its hooves clashed against the cobbles and it disappeared in sheer panic down the street, toward the Seine.

In the aftermath, a chaotic scene greeted Porthos as he dusted himself off and turned back toward his friends.

Athos had apparently crashed through a pile of crates and was slowly rising to his feet. There was blood on his eyebrow, dangerously close to his eye. He swiped at it with a gloved hand, before looking around at the chaos, in search of his friends. Seeing Porthos, they nodded in relief to each other. d'Artagnan and Porthos were unharmed and beginning to take charge of the situation. Looking across the street from him, Athos saw that Aramis had landed on a table, which had apparently collapsed under his weight. A boy he had pulled aside was tangled in his cloak and he emerged with wide frightened eyes, staring around him before scurrying backwards.

A crowd had formed now and the boy disappeared behind their legs as people closed around him, starting to right crates and sacks. Bread, vegetables and spilled grain lay around the Musketeers as they struggled to make sense of it. Crates of chickens had broken open and squawking birds were fluttering around the people who were bent over, trying to retrieve their own merchandise and right their stalls.

Aramis had not moved; although his eyes were wide open and he was staring at the sky.

Porthos laughed and strode over, intent on pulling him to his feet.

Now on unsteady feet, Athos again swiped the blood on his face with a gloved hand and in that moment he saw Porthos's intention. Taking an unsteady step forward, he yelled at him to stop.

"No, Porthos, stand back! Don't touch him!"

Porthos snapped his hand back and turned to face Athos, who had now carefully extricated himself from the crates and detritus around him and had one hand held to his head and the other hand held up for him to stop.

d'Artagnan threw his arms to either side, to keep people back, as Porthos stilled. Then Athos was beside him, swaying. Porthos grabbed his elbow as they both stared down at Aramis. Athos swiped the blood from his eye again before they both crouched down beside Aramis.

"Aramis?" Athos murmured, as his eyes ran over his friend's body.

There were no visible injuries but a feeling of dread was beginning to curl inside him.

Porthos was breathing heavily beside him but was lost for words, not sure what to do.

Suddenly, Aramis hissed in a breath, before his eyes flickered to his two friends, crouched above him.

"Gentlemen, I find I cannot move."

"What?" Porthos managed, before turning to Athos.

"We need to get you back," Athos murmured, his eyes roaming over the ruined table Aramis was lying on.

Athos ran his fingers beneath the table top, discovering it had broken free from its base but was largely intact.

"We will use this," he said, looking at Aramis. "You must stay still and trust us."

"Always," Aramis said, his eyes meeting his friends and seeing their worry. People were gathering behind them now, peering down at him. "As soon as you can," he added, not liking to be the focus of attention in this way.

Athos nodded and slowly stood, nodding to Porthos but in response, Porthos put a firm hand on Athos's shoulder, eyeing the blood now running down the side of his face.

"We'll do it," he growled, waving his hand at d'Artagnan, who came forward.

Porthos reached behind him and picked up Aramis's hat and dusted it off. It was remarkably unscathed. Aramis would be glad of it, he thought. Porthos then scanned the crowd and called on two hearty-looking traders and pressed them into service. Between the four of them, they lifted the table top up.

Porthos covered Aramis with his cloak and they moved slowly off; Athos walking ahead and clearing the way - although the crowd that had gathered seemed to part on its own.

Athos turned back on occasion and he and Porthos exchanged a worried look over Aramis as they walked slowly back, carrying the table top and their injured friend. d'Artagnan kept up a stream of comforting words as he walked, carrying his side of the table, although Aramis did not respond, keeping his eyes closed and seemingly concentrating on breathing carefully.

Athos arrived first at the Garrison and organised two Musketeers to take over from the two tradesmen. Thanks were exchanged and the procession proceeded into the infirmary.

Alerted, Treville came down the stairs and followed them in. Pulling Athos quietly aside, he asked what had happened and went briefly outside to organise someone to run for Lemay.

Laying the table top gently on top of their own wooden table in the back room, they were at a loss what to do. No-one dared touch Aramis; who so far had not moved.

"The boy was unharmed, Aramis," Athos said, as he stood next to him, looking down. "Though we lost sight of him."

"Thank God," Aramis finally said, quietly. "I don't suppose anyone knows what happened to the horse?"

Athos smiled, relieved his friend was communicating once more and concerned for the animal.

Porthos huffed in disgust.

"It ran 'ell for leather apparently; probably at the river by now. No doubt it will have an owner lookin' for it."

d'Artagnan found a flat pillow and they managed to slide it slowly and gently under his head. They unfastened his weapons belt but did not dare slide it out from under him. His jacket was unfastened next and again, left in place.

The blood had congealed by now on Athos's brow but Aramis had been watching him intently as they worked above him.

"Sit, Athos, before you fall."

"I am alright."

"You are shaking. It's the shock of the incident. d'Artagnan?"

"Here," a hand took his gently and Aramis smiled.

"Something sweet for your mentor, d'Artagnan," he said softly, "tea with honey."

Athos began to rise, protesting, but Treville clamped a hand on his shoulder.

"Do as our medic asks. Your teeth are chattering." Athos sank back down, realising his whole body was beginning to react. He nodded at d'Artagnan, who hurried away and then looked at Aramis, who was now perfectly still. Why wasn't he shaking too?

"How do you feel, Aramis?" he managed, on eye level with his friend as he sat beside the table.

Aramis opened his eyes but did not turn his head.

They saw the frown; knew he was calculating his hurts and then he said:

"It doesn't hurt."

Athos, Porthos and Treville all exchanged a look.

Porthos had hold of Aramis's hand, held to his chest. Worried he may be unwittingly hurting Aramis, he gently lowered it and let it rest at his side but kept his hand on top.

" _Shouldn't it_?" he mouths silently to Athos, over Aramis's body.

Athos stared back, with no reply, but when they looked at Aramis, they saw he was looking up at Porthos and had understood. He had hoped to keep his worries from them but they are not fools.

"I'll go and wait for Dr Lemay," Treville said quietly and Aramis heard his boots on the stone floor as he retreated.

"Perhaps it's a good thing," he whispered.

But he knew it was not.

And so did his friends, who have fallen silent around him,

oOo

After what seemed like an age, the door opened and Lemay entered, followed closely by Treville.

Lemay took his time, running his hands along arms and legs and through his scalp, even checking his ears for signs of blood.

"You did well not to move him," he said quietly as he continued his examination, head down.

"If any of you have anything to say," Aramis said softly, "Say it in front of me."

After a few moments, Athos raised his eyes to Lemay; mindful of Aramis's request;

"Have you experience of this?" he asked.

"I have seen men who have taken a fall, who appeared to have survived but, when moved, they lost all movement," Lemay replied, not looking up.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look of quiet despair.

It was d'Artagnan who spoke next.

"I think I saw him move, when we picked up the table; from my position I am sure I saw him hold the edge of the table."

"Can you move, Aramis?" Lemay asked.

After a few moments, Aramis replied.

"No," he whispered.

"Did anyone else see this?" Lemay asked, looking at the three of them.

Athos and Porthos both shook their heads but d'Artagnan was insistent.

"Athos, you were ahead of us and Porthos was holding the corner near his head."

Lemay looked at Athos and frowned, peering at his head; still sluggishly bleeding.

"I will look at that later, if you wish," he said quietly, before looking at d'Artagnan;

"In the meantime, if what you say it right, I will need ice. Lots of it. It will help reduce any swelling," he said.

Treville had been standing back but now he spoke;

"Serge has a small icehouse," he said, "I will arrange it."

Aramis once more heard his steps echoing as he left. His head was pounding now, but he was concentrating on staying calm and not worrying his friends any more than they already were.

In no time, Serge limped in, carrying a muslin cloth filled with ice.

"Got plenty of it, in the ice-house," he grunted, dumping the bag on a nearby table. "'ow do you want it?"

"Crushed and made into several bags, if you will," Lemay replied. "And please keep it coming."

"I'll bash it up and get my boy onto the running of it," Serge replied, before making his way back to his kitchen; his heart as heavy as it always was when one of them was hurt.

Thereafter his kitchen boy brought several bags of ice in and placed it on a table against the wall.

Guided by Lemay they eased Aramis over, keeping him as rigid and still as possible and placed the bags in a line on the table, before laying him back down on them.

"Not very comfortable," Porthos grunted; which made Aramis smile.

There was nothing more to do but wait until the supply of ice needed replacing, so it would be some time before they had to disturb Aramis again. For the most part, he shut himself off; closing his eyes and remaining calm.

He must have dozed then, opening his eyes and watching his brothers as they went about their task once more of keeping him straight as they eased him over to replace the ice.

This was repeated several times, over the same number of hours. Aramis was struck by how gentle and purposeful they were.

He opened his eyes some time later. It was early evening and the kitchen boy was standing close; looking down at him as he passed another bag of ice over to Porthos.

Before they could all repeat the process, without warning, Aramis reached up and captured the boy's wrist; and everything stopped.

"Aramis, you moved!" Porthos cried.

Aramis still had hold of the boy's wrist and the boy was staring at his hand.

"Yes, I do believe I did," Aramis replied, as he continued to look at the boy curiously.

"Thank you" Aramis said softly then, aware that the boy had toiled all day on his behalf.

"Thank you, sir" the boy said, becoming tearful.

Aramis raised his eyebrows; his eyes becoming wide as he suddenly realised that this was the boy he had pulled aside. Their own kitchen boy; barely eight years old.

"I saw you," he whispered.

"Wait," d'Artagnan said, "is this the boy you saved?!"

"I do believe it is," Aramis replied "And he has repaid me in working so hard today," Aramis smiled, loosening his grip and letting the lad go.

The lad turned tail and ran, just as he had this morning; although there was a smile on his face too.

"He never said a word," Serge said later. "I'd sent 'im on an errand to get me some yeast. Just came in and handed it over. He's new. Probably thought 'e was in trouble."

Lemay returned and examined Aramis and told him to remain still and allow his body to repair itself. Any swelling that had created the paralysis was subsiding, but he would no doubt soon be in pain as his body awoke and bruises formed. It was then that Aramis accepted a pain draught for the lingering headache. No doubt he would need it in the days to come.

"You did well to keep so calm, brother," Athos said later, as Aramis tried to find a comfortable position in which to finally sleep.

"I was terrified," Aramis murmured.

They all exchanged a look.

"As were we," Athos replied quietly. "More than you know."

"No more heroics for a while, yeah?" Porthos growled.

Aramis placed his hand over his heart in his familiar gesture.

"I am more the _romantic_ hero," he replied, as they all laughed.

And if Serge gave his lad a few extra portions and a few less errands for a few days, no-one noticed.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	29. Measure for Measure

**A/N: Set during Season One.** Athos seemed to me to be a little subdued in the Season One Episode Eight, "The Challenge," where the Musketeers take on the Red Guard in a challenge set by Louis and Richelieu. There is no mention of him taking part in the tournament. He took little part when the others were talking about raising the entrance fee. He merely concentrated on getting d'Artagnan's head in the right place and arguing vehemently with Treville on his protégé's behalf. It was Aramis who sparred with d'Artagnan for Treville's final assessment, when he could have been better judged against Athos. I wondered why...

oOo

 **29\. MEASURE FOR MEASURE**

 **Athos and Milady:**

 **Summary –** Like moths to the flame, they are drawn. For Athos, there is salvation. For Anne, there is little hope as, under Richelieu's increasing impatience at her lack of results, she is losing control and becoming desperate – and dangerous. Athos struggles to understand and realisation is both sad and painful. Meanwhile, Milady is making her own assessment of the man she once loved.

oOo

However silently Anne moved, he always knew she was there. She thought she could stand in the doorway and watch Olivier work but after just a few moments, he would put down his pen and smile.

"Your stealth does you credit, my love, but your fragrance gives you away."

"I must remember that," she purred.

The sound of his voice was all it took and she would fly across the room and onto his lap.

"I have work to do, Anne," he would protest, though usually without conviction. He always had time for her.

"Yes, you do," she would respond, her eyes sparkling, her hand twisting in his shirt. There would be no more work _that_ day.

Now, all these years later, as she stood pressed against the wall in the dark street, she wondered if he could still detect her as she stood in the night shadows as he neared, head down; one hand on his sword.

She had taken to watching him; following him, when she could.

The rain had soaked his hair and he hunched his shoulders as though to fend it off.

"You are getting careless, Athos. I could have killed you just now," she said quietly from behind him.

He stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned toward her.

Her heart was hammering in her chest in anticipation. She had the upper hand after all; a very powerful patron. He continued to stare at her as she emerged from the shadow of the wall; hood pulled over her hair.

"Shall we call this ... _neutral ground_?" she said smugly; almost _playfully_.

"If you wish," he replied, his tone flat. "I won't attack a defenceless woman."

She smirked.

As if she would be defenceless; they both knew otherwise.

"Your face is full of questions," she murmured. "Ask me anything you want."

He moved closer, walking slowly; his eyes never leaving her face. The familiar warmth began to spread through her.

"What is your connection with the Cardinal?" he ground out, so close now she could feel his breath on her face.

"I have to make living _somehow_ ; what better patron could I have?"

"What, exactly, do you do for him?" Athos asked; his eyes now boring into hers.

"I am a soldier, just like you. Or, perhaps ... not _quite_ the same," she replied, running appreciative eyes over his broad shoulders, before they fell on his throat.

"You still wear my locket. Why?"

"Sometimes, I ask myself the same question," he murmured, watching as she raised her hand to take hold of the chain.

"Shall I show you why?" she said softly, confident as she pulled him forward.

He leaned in without protest, accepting her lips; even responding.

When they finally broke, he stared down at her.

"Do you really think," he asked coldly, "I could forget who you are and what you did?"

She withdrew her hand and sighed.

This was Olivier talking; the stony expression, the same cold gaze she remembered as she stood on the cart, hoping for a last minute change of heart. But Olivier had no heart and now any playfulness left her, even though the old, familiar warm feeling in her body took a little longer to turn equally cold.

"It seems neither of us can forget the past," she replied in a resigned tone.

She stepped around him.

"I give you fair warning, Athos. Leave me alone, or you will regret it."

After her footsteps had died away, Athos stood for a few moments, thinking on her words, before turning on his heel and heading for the nearest tavern.

oOo

Later, as he made his unsteady way back to the Garrison, lost in thought, footsteps behind him alerted him too late; his mind still on his earlier encounter in the alley with Milady. Before he knew what was happening, hands shoved him face first into a wall and then spun him down the alley. His feet refused to carry him in the right direction; his mind was still on her.

Just for the briefest of moments as he was beaten to his knees, he thought he caught sight of her across the way.

She was adept at loitering in shadows.

He must have delayed her earlier with their encounter – but was it not she who called out to him?

Had she done so on purpose so they could get into position?

Was she making good her warning, given so recently?

Was this her revenge?

If it was, he was a little disappointed.

He shook the thoughts from his head as he pulled himself to his feet. Drawing his main gauche sluggishly he realised he was no match in this state, lost to drink and drunk on sadness.

 _You fool._

From across the alley, she watched; getting the measure of _Athos_.

For this was no longer Olivier.

This was a man who fought hard, even when drunk, who refused to go down. She had never seen Olivier like this. She had seen him in his role as Liege Lord; directing, administrating. As such, he metered out punishment; but always fairly. There was always something to do. She had pulled him away when she could and he had always gone willingly; becoming lost in each other for a time. She had seen him tired, impatient, happy, relaxed, and sated. She had seen him loving and caring, his touch soft. But this man – this Athos – she would have to learn him; take his measure, see what was left of the man who she had loved.

Dragged from the chateau after being found standing over Thomas's body with the bloody dagger still in her hand, she was locked up to await her fate. His face had been a mask as he watched the noose placed around her neck, before turning away and riding off; her abandonment total.

She had since burned his damned house down but it had changed her. She had seen the locket he wore. _Her_ locket. Even though he thought her dead - which was what he had wanted - he wore her locket. She had nothing of his. She had taken nothing but the cold look in his eyes; which allowed her to hold on to her fierce anger and crave revenge.

But why had he asked for death at her hand as the fire raged around them? She had the knife at his throat, and he was urging her on. How she had wanted her revenge! Until the moment when she held her dagger to his throat and had seen her locket around his throat. The throat she had wished to slice open a moment before.

Until she had prised it open and saw the pressed flower; a memento of _that_ day.

A moment in time captured and held.

The best time.

When, this night, she had confronted him as they met in the deserted street, that look of anguish was gone; replaced by a cold look once more.

She was a soldier for Richelieu. They were both soldiers now. Their once-genteel life shattered into a million pieces.

There was an immeasurable distance between Anne and Olivier now; but what of Milady and this man?

He was now on his knees in a dark alley; still fighting, but losing.

As she watched, a knife thrust sent him face down and his resistance ceased.

The men were dragging Athos away, further into the darkness to rob and no doubt to kill.

She reached down to end this and picked up a stone, throwing it at the wall and alerting them to a possible passer-by. Finally, they left him; running off into the night.

She moved into the alley toward the prone figure on the ground.

Crouching, she rolled him over.

Taking her knife she reached out and cut his purse from his belt. She thought for a moment he saw her but then his head fell back. She turned and ran.

The rustle of her skirts drew his eyes to her retreating back.

She had cut the purse from his belt without a word and left him in the dirt.

He lay on his back staring up at the constellations, visible between the narrow walls of the alleyway above him. He wanted to call her back in this moment between the stars and oblivion. But what name would he use?

He wanted Anne. But she was not Anne.

An urchin now stood over him, staring down at him with curious wide eyes. Athos had no strength to speak but the waif could not help him. Soon enough, the child turned and ran and he was alone once more.

The stars continued to hold his attention as his strength ebbed away. He had read Greek astronomy as a boy and knew their shapes as they splayed across the dark sky. If he was to die in an alley, at least his last view on earth would be spectacular.

He thought he felt his life ebbing away and he picked out a particularly bright planet on which to concentrate.

The stars were suddenly blocked then and he wanted to tell whoever it was to move aside, but it was a face he recognised.

"Hey there, brother, what 'ave you gotten yourself into?"

Porthos was there, accepting the hand Athos managed to raise.

"We need to get you back. Can you stand?"

Porthos eased him up out of the filth, his hand around his back; frowning when he felt the warmth as the blood coated his hand.

"Sorry about this," Porthos said, still frowning.

"About what?" Athos managed, before his knees buckled and he went limp.

Porthos lifted Athos's arm and bent at the waist, neatly allowing Athos to fall over his shoulder. Standing, he patted his friend's leg.

"About this," he grunted as he quickened his pace back to the infirmary, with Athos's head lightly bouncing at his back, passed out cold now.

Porthos stumbled back through the dark streets, eventually staggering through the infirmary door, where Aramis was waiting, alerted by Serge, who had slipped the urchin a crust before he ran off.

oOo

As his cheekbone pressed against the hard wood of the table, he came awake and struggled.

Strong hands held him face down, one in his hair.

"Lie still. We have you," Aramis said quietly and Athos submitted, as his shirt was torn from his back.

He drifted away as his back was washed thoroughly and gently, until without warning, a fire that took his breath burned into the wound as Aramis poured alcohol directly onto his skin.

"Breathe, Athos," Aramis whispered somewhere above him.

After more prodding and swabbing, finally, the sharp needle.

Would this never end?!

Forgetting where he was, he struggled once more, cursing for all he was worth.

"Such language," Aramis hummed, as a gentle hand found his cheek.

He cracked open an eye.

d'Artagnan, on his eye level, sitting alongside him, was smiling at him.

"Nearly done," he whispered. "Hold on a little while longer."

It was enough to still him.

Finally moved to a bed, his face found the comfort of the pillow and he sighed into it, and everything faded.

oOo

Grabbing hold of the first boy she could find, clothed in rags and tatters and stinking, Milady had bound him with a single coin, as she pressed the empty purse into his grubby hands. She urged him on to the Garrison with a promise of the remainder of the money on his return with help. _Find the dark-skinned Musketeer_ , she had said. And he ran, through the filth of the streets, in the right direction at least.

There was nothing she could have done. If she emerged from the shadows, they would both die and she was not ready to die. Olivier, it seemed, had died a long time ago, reborn as this man. Watching him fight, perhaps this Athos was not ready to die either. Perhaps he had nine lives, like a cat. He had already escaped the firing squad after all; albeit, with the help of his fellow Musketeers.

The boy returned, uncommonly fast, his desire for the further coins spurring him on, and with him came the one she wanted; the strong one. She sank back into the shadows and watched as the boy pointed down the alley and was then gone, no doubt searching the shadows for her. She grabbed him quickly and fulfilled her promise of payment and he scampered away.

It was time for her to go. What would be would be now. She had no control, save for revenge once more. When was it ever different?

Pulling up her hood, she had turned and melted into the darkness.

oOo

She still had revenge burning a hole in her soul, but for the moment, it was aimed at others.

The men would pay for what they did this night. She stood in the shadows and watched them; unsure as to why she cared. She wanted her own revenge on the man who had left her to hang; she wanted it to be spectacular. Not some grubby robbery in a dark alleyway against a man too drunk to fight back.

She grasped the blade tightly in her hand and followed the one who had delivered the knife thrust into Athos's back, trailing him away from the alley into another one. The last he would ever walk down.

She would still have her revenge on Olivier, but first, she had to get the measure of Athos.

And that would take some time.

oOo

 **The Infirmary:**

He lay quietly in the burnt-out remnants of a spent fever, listening to the familiar snores of his large friend, across the room.

Comforted, he ran a hand over his jaw and found his neat beard had disappeared, replaced by a thicker, more unkempt version. Time had passed, apparently.

Suddenly in the quiet, the door creaked open and he tensed.

He heard soft footsteps and the swish of satin on the flagstones.

Was he dreaming?

Exhausted, it was all Athos could do to turn his head. The candles were guttered, the shutters closed and the room was wreathed in dense shadow.

 _Her element of choice._

There was nothing he could do to escape her onslaught and he lay passively, the fight gone out of him.

And then, a hand held his briefly. A delicate hand. The fingers stroked his in a familiar gesture at the edge of his awareness. A memory stirred but was gone before he had gathered his thoughts.

Porthos shifted in his sleep and the hand left his and he heard the hurried swish of material on the stone floor and the creak of the door once more as it was softly closed.

He was alone again, save for his sleeping brother; unsure of the reality of it.

When he opened his eyes again, it was daylight. He had been turned and could see where he was.

He had felt himself alone for so long, with only the company of shadows and stars, yet here was the welcome sight of his three brothers and he breathed a loud sigh that awoke them from their sleep. Tumbling from chairs and spilling the last dregs of wine, they surrounded him and he could not help but wonder at their pleasure in seeing him; alive it seemed.

oOo

"You keep dubious company for a comte," Porthos said as he pulled over a chair and sat down.

"How so?" Athos asked quietly, grimacing as he accepted a pain draft from his insistent brother, Aramis.

"A scruffy little beggar showed up with your purse, pullin' on my leg to follow 'im. Took me to an alley an' there you were – beat black and blue and bleedin' from a knife to yer back."

"She is not done with me," Athos said then, as they all moved to sit with him.

They looked at him in confusion. Only d'Artagnan knew to whom he referred; the shadowy figure who had ridden away from the burning chateau. Athos's wife. It was a secret he had given his word not to reveal and he held his peace now.

"I am sure I saw her. Across the alleyway, watching."

"Are you sure you saw someone?" d'Artagnan asked, tentatively.

"She is adept at hiding in shadows," Athos growled. "But her choice of dress material has always been flamboyant."

Aramis smiled, though he asked no questions.

"Yes, I find black serge works well if one does not want to be seen," Aramis added, to lighten the mood.

"Somehow, I cannot see her in black serge," Athos sighed wearily.

They each caught each other's eye and shrugged.

They had seen Athos's reaction to Madame la Chapelle at Ninon's trial. They had had to hold him back as his reaction was so intense. Questioned, he had shrugged them off and they had let him be.

"The question remains. How did the little bugger know where to come? Porthos said then.

"Serge said a funny thing," Aramis replied.

"What?"

"He said the little one had a smell of jasmine about him. Along with his other smells."

Athos sighed.

"The urchin would not dare to cross her," Athos replied. "What happened to him?"

"Scurried off," Porthos responded. "Once I found you. Never saw him again."

Athos was still.

When they spoke of the urchin, his mind was lost in turmoil for a moment, before the heaviness in his chest eased. When he had seen her knife flash in the alley, he had thought she would finish him; a repeat of their encounter as the fire raged around them. However, she had not, although perhaps she preferred to leave him to die in the dirt of the alley.

But, he thought, if she _had_ orchestrated his attack, why had she come in the dead of night and held his hand?

"I think I know who sent him," he finally said.

"Who?"

 _Anne._

But Athos did not reply.

"Get some sleep, my friend," Aramis said quietly as he ushered them out of his room. The last to leave, he looked back. Whatever deep secrets Athos held, he was apparently not willing to disclose them yet.

He hoped he could find peace. Life was too short to live in pain.

oOo

It was true what Athos had said. The boy knew nothing of _Anne_ and he would not dare to cross Milady. He had seen her work, from high on the roof tops. That night, after he had returned to her and received payment, he had followed her and saw how she came out of the shadows and claim her victim before he knew she was upon him. The thug who had delivered the knife thrust to the Musketeer was dead.

He shuddered to think she may do that to him. He knew which side his bread was buttered. He had delivered her message in strict accordance to her wishes. He hoped she may use him again if he proved reliable.

She was dangerous, but sometimes, her look softened and her touch was tender; he would give anything for one such look, one such touch; however rare.

oOo

Her desperation grew.

Richelieu was becoming increasingly impatient; his threats more intense.

She felt the finality falling about her.

She felt her control slipping away. Always one step ahead, now she floundered.

Still scheming to bring d'Artagnan over to their side, she had pressed thirty livre on him, paying his entry fee for the Tournament that would pitch the Musketeers against the Red Guard. She had watched as he was victorious over Lebarge and had received his commission.

She had watched as Athos had slipped the pauldron onto his arm. He had survived then, she thought.

Afterwards, though, d'Artagnan had spurned her advances and walked away from her coach.

"Another time," he had said; signalling her failure once more.

The love-sick fool was their weak link though. Time was something she had little of now and her scheming intensified.

The Musketeers escorted the Queen to the country to take her annual trip to the healing waters, and she received shocking new orders from The Cardinal.

"Don't tell me you have qualms," Richelieu had sneered at her.

"An ordinary death does not concern me, but this is not an ordinary death," she had replied.

"If this goes wrong," the Cardinal had shouted, grabbing her by the throat, "You will pay a very great price!"

But whatever qualms she had had, she buried. She was losing Richelieu's support and would do anything to survive.

Milady had assured him, as it began to unravel, that Gallagher would accomplish the job she had tasked him. Ultimately, however, Gallagher had failed; with the minimum opposition from just two Musketeers, Athos included, damn him.

Athos had found out her truth later, as they faced Gallagher. A once-honourable soldier, tasked and compelled by his code to fight to the end. Athos felt another piece of Anne slip away as he looked on the blue flower pressed into the velvet lid of the box they retrieved from Gallagher's saddlebags. He had realised her involvement in the most heinous crime – to kill the Queen of France.

How long before Anne was lost forever? How long before she became this murderous creature, body and soul?

"She is the most dangerous woman I know," he had told his comrades.

He was speaking of Milady.

No more the fool; he had her measure now.

They all did.

oOo

Later, the man who used to be Athos would gain final proof, if he needed it, that his Anne had gone. If she had saved him in the alley, he reasoned that it was because she had wanted him to live at that particular point in time. They attempted to defeat her with an elaborate plan that would see Athos in his grave and had learned that Milady was Athos's wife. Ultimately, they had all misjudged a desperate woman as she unleashed her venom on Constance; working with Sarazin and using her as a lure.

Even defeated, and with Sarazin dead, she still threatened retribution on the young woman.

As she knelt before Athos with his blade at her throat, he still searched for her beneath the cold look; still calling her "Anne."

With a cold sneer she pulled off the choker and revealed the scar to him in a final act of defiance.

So close, so close, as Athos held the tension in his muscles and warred within himself, the blade steady in his hand; before his breath left him and the sword fell to his side.

In the end, he could not run her through. He had felt his brothers and Constance at his back, willing him to let her be.

They were as tired as he.

"If you show your face in Paris again," he said, " I _will_ kill you..."

As she had walked away with her life and with her head held high, a smile spread across her face.

She had seen Olivier once more.

And, as she had stared into this man's face, she had seen Athos.

She had his measure now.

oOo

 **A/N** What a tangled web they wove. Two people, but four very different personas.

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	30. This Band of Brothers

Set early in Season One, as d'Artagnan finds his place.

 **30\. THIS BAND OF BROTHERS**

 **All of them. One more conscious than the others:**

"They look peaceful."

d'Artagnan flinched. He hadn't heard his Captain come in; Treville moved quietly for a soldier.

Maybe it was just that he hadn't been paying attention; but his ears were ringing still and he held himself stiffly and really, he just wanted to sit quietly because his head hurt and if he shut his eyes, he could still see the flash, bright white and blinding and he could still feel the sheer force as it punched him backward, away from Athos's hand that had a moment ago pushed him away and...

"Easy, lad. Slow down. I can hear you thinking. You're safe now."

d'Artagnan swallowed the lump in his throat.

 _Safe._

He remembered thinking that when he opened his eyes; blinking the dust away.

" _I'm safe."_

The smoke had cleared a little and he turned toward Athos to give his thanks, but he wasn't there.

He looked for Aramis and Porthos but they had gone too.

He remembered shouting their names but his voice had sounded muffled and far away. Realising he was on the ground, he had pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. From the higher level, he had then seen their shapes prone on the ground.

oOo

Strong hands took hold of his arms now and eased him along, guiding him to a spare cot and pulling a blanket over him.

The Infirmary ...

How had he got here?

 _Where were they?!_

He turned on his side, his whole body protesting; ears ringing. His eyes fell on his three brothers who occupied the three beds adjacent. They looked more dead than alive and he had the awful thought that he would not go on without them. Could not.

 _All for One_.

"What?" Treville's voice was behind him now. He had not realised he had spoken their mantra out loud.

 _All for One_... _his life for theirs._

That thought kept running through his head and no! That's not what it meant.

The scrape on the flagstones brought his attention back to Treville, who had pulled a chair in front of him and sat, blocking his view.

"That's not what it means," the Captain said, reading his thoughts; his eyes grey flint, holding his like a steel trap. It was impossible to look away but he needed this. He needed his Captain to explain to him why he was unharmed but his brothers were not.

"Athos pushed me away," d'Artagnan whispered.

"Our motto is unity," Treville said firmly.

d'Artagnan looked away.

" _All for One and One for All,_ lad. Never forget."

"If one is in trouble, the others fight for him," Treville said. "That is the true meaning of "All for One."

"So lad, you fight for them now. Do them proud. It's what we do," he said. "Every man in this Garrison will be keeping his own vigil, no matter what he is tasked with. We are a band of brothers. Never think you are alone in this. Never think we are divided."

He stood then and dragged his chair wearily aside.

"You have no duty today, lad, so stay here; keep watch. I leave you in charge. The physician is on his way. Come and get me if you need to."

Treville stood looking down at him until d'Artagnan raised his eyes and nodded.

After he had gone, d'Artagnan pulled the blanket around his shoulders and slid off the bed. Retrieving the chair, he lifted it carefully and placed it quietly next to Athos.

He kept his vigil; one for all.

Watching; remembering; pondering their motto. Teasing it apart to make sense of it.

All for One ... They had taken him in. Not that long ago; although it seemed an age since he had buried his father.

oOo

Athos had been reluctant to take the boy on at first. Treville, of course, had known how to counter any argument.

"I am told his sword-work is promising," he had said. "One for All, Athos," he had added, not looking at him. "For the good of the Regiment."

Athos had raised an eyebrow at Treville's blatant attempt to manipulate; remembering how he had heard that same argument before. He could not argue with the sentiment. He had therefore taken up the challenge, but not before muttering, "damned motto," before he left, closing the door none too quietly behind him.

Treville had smiled and watched him stride purposefully across the yard toward the boy. He had previously used that argument to eventually snare Athos, and his Lieutenant had not-so-subtly reminded him of it.

It had also been deployed to pull Porthos in. Unsure of Treville's true motives, he had been swayed by the thought of a motto that promised brotherhood. Not something he had experienced en-masse in the infantry, where Treville had found him. There, friendships were expendable and often short once the army was deployed.

Aramis had needed no such persuasion. He had been well-aware of his worth to the Regiment and had presented himself for his commission, following his exploits on numerous campaigns. If anything, his swagger needed tempering. The sentiment held true with him, though. He would do anything for anyone, man or woman.

Now, Treville watched quietly from the infirmary doorway.

It was a strange feeling as he watched his three best men, still side by side in brotherhood where he had placed them, but quiet now; the outcome uncertain. He had personally taken care of them, with the help of his old friend Serge, washing away the dust and bathing cuts, although there were no other visible signs of injury. d'Artagnan had watched as he slowly came back to his senses; awake but deeply shocked. His heart went out to the lad, so recently bereaved and now lost in remorse.

If he could will his men to consciousness, he would.

Dr Lemay could give no assurances. One may wake, or all of them. Or none of them. Time would tell.

Treville was ever watchful. He left the boy in charge, knowing he would raise the alarm if anything should happen.

Quietly though, in his heart of hearts, he trusted his men to return. Like d'Artagnan, he could not countenance anything else. Together, although they did not speak of it, they drew strength from each other; the experienced soldier and the raw recruit.

As the hours wore on though, d'Artagnan was growing more anxious and his perceived guilt wore heavily on him. Athos had pushed him aside, sensing the explosion. The memory of that selfless act clear in his mind now, having circled like a black carrion bird, around and around; never letting up.

Treville joined him once more, as the light faded.

d'Artagnan was aware of him moving around, lighting candles, and closing shutters.

"What if they don't wake?" he suddenly said.

"They will do their best. That's all we can ask."

"How can you be sure?"

"I know them."

d'Artagnan must have fallen asleep, for he was jolted awake by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Dawn was approaching, its soft rays filtering through the shutters, casting shafts of light on the floor.

He looked up fearfully into the face of his Captain.

Treville smiled.

"Watch, lad," he said softly.

d'Artagnan turned back to his brothers; no longer lying still and quiet.

As each one slowly woke, struggling to make sense of their surroundings, they cast around until sure their brothers lived.

Aramis turned his head to look as his two prone brothers.

"Porthos?" he asked.

"'Ere."

"Athos?" Porthos grunted in turn.

"Here."

Next, they each said one word, in unison;

'd'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan laughed.

"Here. I'm here," he said, brown eyes suddenly awash.

"All for One," Treville said quietly, his hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Never forget."

Patting him on the shoulder, Treville moved forward.

"Can you all hear me?" he addressed his men, mindful they had been in a blast.

"Yes, Captain."

"Can you see me?"

A pause.

"Yes, Captain; Yeah; Yes."

"Are you in pain? Athos?"

"Nothing I cannot handle," he grunted.

"Porthos?"

"Nah, all fine an' fit," he groaned.

"Aramis?"

"In top form, Captain," he grimaced.

"Good," Treville replied, hands on hips; looking them over carefully.

"I'm three men down, gentlemen," he said firmly. "In your own time."

He turned his gaze on d'Artagnan then.

"And you, lad," he asked in a softer tone. "How are you faring?"

d'Artagnan looked at him and then at his brothers, who were now slowly pushing back sheets and reaching for their clothes.

"Better now, Captain," he grinned.

Treville nodded.

"Good lad," he said. And then, out of ear shot of his three men, "Keep an eye on them."

With a last sweep of his men, Treville strode out.

Business as usual, it seemed.

Outside, Treville paused, watching the new day unfold and his Garrison come to life.

As mottos went, it held true.

It was good to see it in action once more.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

 **A/N** "A Band of Brothers" is a term used by William Shakespeare in Henry V


	31. Not Today

**A/N:** Thanks so much for your continued support. I'll be away for a few days and offline, so I wanted to publish this short chapter before I go.

oOo

 **31\. NOT TODAY**

 **Athos:**

Not today.

He would not die today.

The words uttered over him in this quiet room were not enough to convince him.

The Last Rites.

They would do this for him, but he was not ready.

He was stubborn. They knew that, surely.

Stubborn and taciturn.

It had been bred in him.

Servants had made him uncomfortable. He was not made of the stuff his father had been made of.

He had not been able to deny Anne anything.

Nor Thomas.

He could not always voice his needs. He had buried his true feelings of gentleness and hope and wonder (not always becoming sentiments for a noble) beneath the mantle of duty.

He had worn that mantle until it fitted; moulded to his body. And to his soul.

He had become what they wanted.

All of them stronger in their own wants than he.

Until he met Porthos and Aramis.

Until he began to unravel.

Until they called him Brother.

They were here with him now ...

He could feel their presence. He could taste their sadness. He could smell their fear.

For him. All for him.

He could deny them nothing.

But it was not the same as before.

For he wanted _their_ gentleness and hope.

And wonder? Well, that was something he had felt every day since they had walked into his life and had infectiously swept him along.

They had denied him nothing.

Not his moods, nor his glares, nor the inner turmoil that had threatened to engulf him. They had borne it all.

In his worst moments, he had fought them with a ferocity that had taken his breath away at times; afraid of what he had become. Afraid of their gentleness and hope.

They accepted it all. His broken spirit; his broken heart.

They had accepted his mantle of duty, for they wore their own. But they had seen beneath and they had shown him once more the man he was. The man he had always been, before betrayal had almost destroyed him and scattered him to the four winds.

Now, they would do this last act for him ... even though he knew they raged against it.

He could feel it. He knew it.

Their bond was forged by gentleness and hope and wonder, but also by fierce will and determination.

In this, again, he could not deny them.

He would not die today.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	32. Not Today: Part Two

**32\. NOT TODAY: Part Two**

After the last chapter, "Not Today," Issai wondered about the POV of Aramis and Porthos. So here is the follow on.

oOo

Athos may die today.

Aramis had sent for the priest.

He could not allow Athos to die unshriven and unforgiven.

He hoped Athos would understand. It was perhaps a selfish desire on his part, but there was a dark secret within Athos that they had yet to discover. He wanted to ensure his brother's soul was cleansed and that he would find a peace of sorts, either with himself or with God.

Their bond had been borne from gentleness and hope and wonder. But oh, how he had fought them.

Driven toward stark self destruction; drunk on sadness and loss, he had attempted to push them away at first but they fought back with equal fervour and called him friend. They had drawn him to them by force of will and determination.

This was a man who had lost himself but they were nothing if not tenacious. They could both see the man beneath.

And anyway; they were intrigued.

Athos intrigued Porthos at least, who had rarely seen a man who could hold a room still with a single raised sword, with a glare, with just one word.

Intrigue aside, it was fascination that drew Aramis to Athos. Aramis knew there was a warm heart beating within that iron breast. They only had to find the key, but such keys were often hard to come by.

Athos was stubborn, they discovered.

Stubborn and taciturn.

They could wait; they were both patient men when it was required. Especially where intrigue and fascination were concerned.

Slowly, gently, wonder of wonders; they became brothers.

Duty defined them; they all wore that mantle well.

Athos, however, remained taciturn.

He flourished in their friendship, but on his own terms. He did not ascend into sweetness and light and often decimated a proposal of theirs; a strategy, or an argument, like a red-hot knife through butter.

But in his heart, he had never denied them anything.

Athos may die today.

Today, though, amid their sadness and fear, they are not ready to let him go.

If gentleness and hope and wonder cannot hold him to them, then sheer force of will and determination surely can.

Aramis prays Athos can feel their presence at his side.

Porthos, though not a religious man, prays he can feel their hope.

They both pray today might be a day of wonder.

Perhaps Athos is not ready to die today.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	33. In Readiness

**31\. IN READINESS**

 **All of them:**

Sometimes, it is necessary to prepare the infirmary for an influx of patients.

Word can come, day or night, that patrols are making their way back with injured. Their messengers are sometimes sent before a true picture has emerged; sometimes still in the midst of the aftermath. To wait would diminish chances of survival.

Those who wait in the infirmary are left to wonder at what awaits them.

oOo

Tonight, the weather is inclement. Aramis has run from the house in the Place Dauphine after one of the Garrison's stableboys had pounded on the door. He is unsure of how the boy knew his whereabouts, but that is a question for another time. His thoughts are now on his brothers, Porthos in particular, who was with the patrol that left the day before to apprehend a gang of bandits who had been terrorising Paris and the surrounding countryside. They were led by the two infamous Bossart brothers, Marin and Cesar, who were known to be bloodthirsty and dangerous in the extreme.

Throwing his cloak around him, Aramis ran through the rain. The boy had gone before him, back to the Garrison to await the return of the horses.

Everyone would be on alert to receive the patrol.

What met his gaze when he appeared, wet and dishevelled in the infirmary, was d'Artagnan, sitting forlornly on a cot, holding his hand to his chest.

"It went badly wrong. We were outnumbered," he muttered as Aramis examined his hand.

d'Artagnan flinched violently as Aramis took hold of his fingers, four of them broken.

"What happened?" Aramis asked quietly, making a mental note to find something to splint the fingers together, after he had the news that d'Artagnan had yet to impart.

"Porthos sent me back for reinforcements," the boy ground out, looking paler by the second.

"Stay with me," Aramis whispered, pouring water into a cup and helping his young friend to drink.

"How many casualties?"

"When I left, two dead and three wounded."

"And Porthos?"

"Still fighting when I left," d'Artagnan said. "I did'nt want to leave, Aramis. He made me."

"The right decision, mon ami. You could not hold a weapon with that hand, and Porthos would have been distracted by your infirmity."

d'Artagnan looked miserable though he seemed to accept the explanation.

"Where is Treville?" Aramis enquired, in part to distract d'Artagnan.

"On his way back from the Palace. He has sanctioned the extra men, and they left just before you arrived."

"Under whose command?" Aramis asked, gently placing the damaged hand on the table next to d'Artagnan.

"Athos," d'Artagnan replied. "He has taken six men with him."

"Then all shall be well, my friend," Aramis smiled. "If you will wait here, I will find something to splint those fingers."

Aramis sprinted to the laundry and dug out four of the slim, wooden pegs the laundry mistress used to fasten sheets to to the line. Breaking them apart, he hoped they would make good splints to keep d'Artagnan's fingers in place until they healed. Turning, he headed back to the infirmary, and began his task. When he had finished, he checked d'Artagnan for other injuries, deciding his lethargy was due mainly to exhaustion. He settled the young man back on the cot while he set about preparing for the arrival of the returning injured.

d'Artagnan fought sleep, anxious for the return of the men he had fought with in the forest. The sight of the two Bossart brothers had made his blood run cold. They well deserved their reputation of mindless killers. The Musketeers had been surprised by the number of men who attacked them and soon, it had become clear that this would be a battle of unknown outcome. It had all the hallmarks of a last stand for the murderous brothers.

The Musketeers held their own, and during a brief lull in the battle, they found themselves hunkered down within the ruins of an old chapel. It was then that Porthos realised d'Artagnan's injury. Having a foot stamped down hard had ensured broken bones and Porthos was in no mood to argue. Besides, if d'Artagnan could make a break and get back to the Garrison, he would be serving a greater purpose than trying to remain and fight. d'Artagnan had tried to argue but had soon accepted that Porthos was in no mood for his misplaced bravery, and he had determined to get back to the Garrison as soon as he could.

Luck had been on his side.

Now, he watched as Aramis boiled water, and checked his supplies. Others had joined him to help, and together they ensured that six of the beds were fit to be occupied.

It was now a waiting game.

After a while, there was nothing to be done and the men all sat silently staring at the floor, anxious for the return of their comrades.

At the sound of boots on flagstones, they all turned expectantly toward the door.

It was Treville, straight from the Palace and wanting answers.

"We should have expected these numbers," he growled, slamming his hand onto a nearby table. "Those two thugs are cowards. They would not face retribution alone."

Treville dismissed the men as there was nothing to be done, leaving Aramis and d'Artagnan in the quiet of the infirmary. He returned to his office to await Porthos and Athos's return.

The evening wore on.

Aramis began to pace, before checking and rechecking his supplies. d'Artagnan had fallen silent, picking at the threads of the blanket Aramis had thrown over him.

Just as Aramis was ready to saddle up his horse and head out after them, there was the welome sound of horses returning. Men started to file into the infirmary. One, two, three, and then four. Aramis was soon busy stitching and bandaging, but his eyes kept straying to the door, waiting for Porthos and Athos.

Before he could ask, there was the familiar sound of boots in the corridor, and Porthos strode through the doorway, chicken leg in his hand. He had obviously made a detour to the kitchen after sending his injured to the infirmary.

Both Aramis and d'Artagnan heaved a joint sigh of relief.

"If you have seen to your stomach before allowing me to see to your hurts, I will be very angry," Aramis grunted as he tied off a bandage on his last patient.

"I'm fine and fit," Porthos said casually, just as Treville came up behind him, having watched his patrol return from his balcony.

Having taken in the scene, Treville nodded, before turning back to Porthos.

"Marin's dead. Took 'is 'ead off," Porthos said with satisfaction. "The others too, thanks to the reinforcements."

"Where's Athos?" Treville asked, recognising some of the men who he had ordered to go with Athos earlier.

Porthos waved his chicken leg, "He went after Cesar. Said he'd bring 'im back. The bugger ran like a coward when Athos arrived.

Aramis lit more candles, as Serge brought food.

"Then we will await his return," he said, though he felt a little uneasy, feeling the weight of Athos's absence in light of what had transpired this night.

Time ticked by.

The bells of Notre Dame indicated that dawn was approaching and still no sign of their brother's return.

After nerves were frayed to distraction, the outer door suddenly slammed open.

Aramis went into the corridor.

There was Athos, holding Cesar by the neck of his jacket. The villain's face was a mask of blood and he was sagging at the knees but Athos was giving him no quarter; almost strangling him with the strong hold he had on the man's collar.

Aramis stopped in his tracks at the sight before him.

"Are you alright?" he asked tentatively, not liking the look on Athos's face.

"He is in need of your needlework before he goes to his death, when justice is served," Athos growled, having ignored Aramis's question and giving his captive a violent shake that sprayed blood across the walls.

"So are you," Aramis replied softly. Athos was bleeding from a wound to his upper arm and one to his thigh.

"Between you, you are making a mess on the floor, mon ami," Aramis said carefully. "And on the wall."

He took a step forward but Athos seemed to have decided not to relinquish his captive after all and the glare he received stopped Aramis in his tracks.

d'Artagnan and Porthos, alerted by the quiet conversation in the corridor, appeared behind Aramis.

Aramis cast a look over his shoulder at them and shook his head, indicating that he wanted them to stay. Confused, they did as they were bid.

It seemed they were at an impasse. Running on adrenaline, Athos glared and snarled at anyone who came near.

His captive was quiet, seeming to sense the danger he was in. Athos now had his main gauche in his hand and appeared to all of them that he was ready to use it.

"Athos," Porthos said quietly, stepping around Aramis, "Let us 'ave 'im now. You said you'd bring 'im back. You've done your duty."

Athos was visibly swaying and for a moment Porthos held his breath as Athos's hand tightened around the handle of his blade. He looked at Porthos, who nodded and smiled at him and finally Athos gave a sigh and a slight nod of acceptance, before leaning back against the wall.

Porthos carefully took Cesar from Athos's grip and quickly pushed him toward Aramis, who grabbed him and pulled him unceremoniously through the infirmary doorway.

"It will be my pleasure to put stitches in your hide, monsieur," Aramis said, taking Cesar's weight. "Although, I cannot guarantee my usual finesse. It has been a trying night."

Porthos then reached out for Athos and got a hold on his good arm. Athos took two steps, before he crumpled into his arms.

Later, Athos woke to Treville at his side.

Treville waited until Athos was ready to speak.

"I caught up with him, but not before he had killed again," Athos said quietly, not looking at Treville.

"An innocent farm-boy, no more than twenty. Killed with a pitchfork. No doubt his own."

Athos shuddered and Treville reached out and steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

Athos was not finished however.

"I found the farmer in the barn, attempting to hang himself. No doubt the boy's father, driven mad with grief."

Athos finally looked at Treville; his eyes haunted.

"I did not know whether to stop him or allow him to continue," he added, barely audible.

Treville had no response to the admission. He was unsure how he himself would have reacted.

"But he saw me," Athos said. "He looked right at me."

Athos paused and took a deep breath.

"I will never forget that look," he said quietly.

"I could not let him do it," had added finally. "I could not live with myself."

Athos threw his arm across his eyes.

"But I have condemned him to live with the horror of his son's death; though I cannot say he will not try again ..." he trailed off.

Treville sighed.

"I understand," he replied.

This went far beyond Musketeer duty. His men were flesh and blood and were all honourable men. He expected no less. Sometimes, however, the responsibility could be a heavy burden and spilled into the unknown territory of their own emotions.

"And that is when Cesar attacked me. In my moment of weakness," Athos said. "He was still there. He had been watching."

"Not weakness, Athos," Treville said firmly. He had never been as proud of his men than he was this night.

"Fortunately," Athos murmured, "By that time, I had the rope in my hands and was able to use it to my advantage. I think I broke his nose."

A faint glimmer of satisfaction flitted actross his face and Treville relaxed as he saw it. There was his soldier.

Later, Treville was able to tell Aramis that Athos's wounds were the result of a pitchfork and would need extra care if he was to get to the execution. For he was sure that the good people of Paris would expect no less from their King. As Captain, he expected no less than a full turnout of his men when Cesar was despatched to a Hell that deserved him.

He would ensure Athos was fit to attend.

Because of his men's actions this night, the people the Bossarts had terrorised could sleep safely in their beds once more.

Elsewhere, as a new day broke, a bereaved farmer stood in his barn, staring up at the beam; the rope in his hands once more.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	34. If These Walls Could Talk (3)

Many thanks to all of you who read these tales, and for all your comments. There is a humorous one half written, but these others seem to keep pushing themselves forward, so I am just going with it. I'm away next week so just leaving this one with you :)

oOo

 **34\. IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK (3)**

It has been said that walls absorb the energy of those within them.

It was a sobering thought, Aramis mused as he looked around the empty Infirmary one bright Spring morning.

He had often wondered on it, for this was a place where energy sparked in abundance.

Sometimes the air fairly crackled with it.

Pain, fear, grief and heartache would bleed out freely and not all attempts to staunch that flow were successful.

It was a place where emotions ran high; where confusion reigned for those twixt this life and the next.

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?

What nightmares …?

oOo

Aramis had watched many a bad dream play out within these walls over the years.

They all had.

Those abed and those caring would often succumb to the mysteries that the mind unleashed as it attempted to make sense of the day's circumstance.

Bad dreams were like a fever; something of a release which left the body spent.

Aramis had once watched Athos dream; eyelids wide open as if awake. Eyes rolled back so only the whites showed. A soul in torment. At the time, there was nothing Aramis could do from his bed, where he himself was recovering. He could only watch his friend as he slumped on a chair, head resting on his arms on the table; obviously exhausted.

Those white eyes turned toward him had made his blood run cold.

Athos had eventually woken and, seeing him watching, he had smiled and asked how he was feeling.

It broke his heart.

The image of his brother's torment still in his mind, Aramis finally found his voice.

"I am fine, mon ami. Thank you for asking."

Porthos slept like the dead, injured or not, but was not often troubled with bad dreams.

The excessive dreams he did have usually revolved around food; lately, walnuts and apples and the damage they could do.*

And the Red Guard of course. Always fodder for Porthos.

d'Artagnan's dreams were sorrowful; his grief for his father just below the surface when he was healing. His guilt at not being able to prevent the mortal shot, nor save him as he fell on that dark, wet night were the stuff of _his_ nightmares. Any other dreams were more troubled than dark, often involving Constance, who was never far from his waking thoughts. And the loathsome Bonacieux; where his dreams could take a dark turn.

Aramis had no doubt that as d'Artagnan progressed in his service, there would be many a dark dream awaiting him.

Aramis had been told he himself reverted to Spanish during his nightmares. He was glad of that. His darkest dreams were for no-one but himself. They involved fearsome black crows and the consequences of treason. The latter was only a fevered cry away from making his transgression known to his two brothers. His third already knew his secret. That was the stuff of nightmares too. Of the hangman's noose and Athos's lifeless body; if he lived to bear witness to that terrible outcome, of course, which he doubted. The nightmare of being broken on the wheel was a whole episode of its own.

There was plenty of dark fodder for these walls to absorb from the four of them alone, Aramis mused, as he walked quietly around the empty room.

If these walls could talk they would howl.

They would scream.

Aramis suppressed a shudder that threatened to overtake him. Images he thought he had repressed came flooding back to mind.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. Closing his eyes he tilted his head back, stretched out his arms and slowly turned in a circle.

Could a room feel? Could its walls absorb pain and suffering? It was true that many a painful moment, many a crisis, had played out here.

But, when a crisis is over and the dreams are beaten back, there is a certain silence that descends.

Where does the energy go?

How can it be that nerves stretched to breaking point by witness to these nightmares, and deep emotions laid bare, are suddenly released and such silence descends?

Then, the atmosphere is different.

As if the walls mock … having absorbed the worst and stored it. For later.

However, if nightmares are absorbed, surely words of love are too?

It was a comforting thought at last, as he opened his eyes.

Calmer now, he walked to the end of the room, straightening sheets and setting the room to rights. Still lost in his thoughts, something caught his eye.

A mark, on the wall ahead of him, which he had never seen before.

He approached slowly, bending slightly, the mark close to the head of the cot that stood in front of it.

One word, written in pale red-brown thick letters, as if executed carefully by a finger:

"Hope."

Aramis drew in a breath and reached for his crucifix.

His heart lifted.

A single word that encompassed all that was good here.

Human spirit, at its best.

The walls had given their answer.

"What are you doing?"

The quiet, clipped voice broke him from his reverie.

Turning, he looked into familiar green eyes.

"Nothing," he smiled as he strode across to join his friend in the doorway.

"Did you know walls could talk, Athos?" he said, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulder and grinning broadly.

Athos did not move, mere!y raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"What am I supposed to say to that?" he finally replied.

Aramis put his finger to his lips as he drew Athos out of the infirmary.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he smiled, as he closed the door behind them.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

*"For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil?": Hamlet, Wm Shakespeare.

*"Infirmary Talk 26 – King of the Castle."


	35. Do you 'ave to go?

**35\. "DO YOU 'AVE TO GO?"**

"Do you 'ave to go?" Porthos muttered as they rose as one and prepared to leave.

"No," replied Athos as he buckled on his belt and steadied his sword at his hip. "We'll tell the King we are indisposed today, looking after you. I am sure he will be sympathetic."

"You could tell 'im I took a turn for the worse?" Porthos ventured.

Athos went very still, before turning a stern gaze on him.

"Yes, because a twisted knee is so very life-threatening," he replied in a tone he intended to be the end of the matter.

It did not work.

"I've got a concussion too," Porthos persisted. "You could tell 'im I fell out of bed and ..."

"Porthos! Enough!" Athos barked, before Porthos's imagination could take flight.

"He has a point, Athos," Aramis said, stuffing the last piece of bread in his mouth. "It can get very boring in here."

"Especially if you're the only patient," d'Artagnan added, working a knot from his neck, as he looked around the otherwise empty infirmary room.

They had all gathered here the previous evening to keep Porthos company bringing food, wine and a pack of cards. Inevitably, they had each taken a cot and slept there, rather than disperse to their own quarters.

Athos sighed.

"Lemay says he is to remain here for three days," he said, as though Porthos was not there. "We each have some time off after today," he said. "We can share him out."

Porthos beamed. He hated being bored.

Athos turned to him and studied him for a few moments.

Porthos withered slightly.

"Behave yourself today. Any damage you cause yourself will be classed as self-inflicted," Athos said. "And self-inflicted wounds are worthy of ..."

"Court Martial," Porthos interrupted. "Yeah, I get it."

"Bit harsh," d'Artagnan said as they headed to the stables.

"He responds to harsh," Aramis smiled, clapping the young man on the shoulder.

"We have found it is the best way with Porthos," Athos added.

"And anyway, you have the first watch. You may as well start this afternoon."

"Can't be too difficult," the young man said.

Athos and Aramis exchanged a knowing look.

oOo

d'Artagnan presented himself later that day, with a spring in his step. This was much better than his normal duty, he thought. Being the newest member of the team had its disadvantages and anything that got him out of stable duty was alright with him, no matter how much he loved horses.

Porthos was dressed, but dutifully laying on his bed, knee propped on pillows.

At the sight of d'Artagnan standing in the doorway, he held up the deck of cards and waggled them, before a low chuckle escaped him.

"Take a seat," he invited, in his friendliest voice.

d'Artagnan's smile faltered.

"I have no money, Porthos," he said warily.

"Who said anythin' about money?" Porthos replied, as d'Artagnan settled carefully on the chair,

Porthos played for favours. Particularly, stable duty, armoury duty and guard duty. By the time they had finished, Porthos had gotten out of all of his mundane duties, which would now be done by his sick-looking young friend.

"As soon as Treville puts me on the rosta, your name goes on instead, yeah?" he laughed as he gathered up the cards.

"You weren't even cheating, were you?" d'Artagnan grumbled.

"Didn't 'ave to," Porthos laughed.

d'Artagnan stood slowly.

"Do you 'ave to go?" Porthos asked, with an innocent look on his face.

d'Artagnan could still hear him laughing as he stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine.

oOo

"I've worked up quite an appetite," Porthos said as Aramis stepped into the room the following day.

Luckily, Aramis was in a good mood, and in no time, he had taken himself off to the mess and returned with a tray of food.

"He's eatin' me out of 'ouse and 'ome," Serge grumbled. "How long is he confined for?"

"Two more days," Aramis replied. "The Captain has him rostered for stable duty and armoury duty after that; nothing too active," he added, ignorant of the fact that it would be d'Artagnan who would undertake those particular duties now. d'Artagnan had been too embarrassed to confess his experience.

Serge huffed. "Can't come too soon for me," he grumbled.

Porthos had only just finished eating when he asked for his sword.

"Why do you want your sword?" Aramis asked.

"Needs sharpenin'" Porthos replied.

"You can't do that from your bed, my friend. And you need to remain still. A concussion is not to be taken lightly."

Porthos sighed.

"Would you like me to do it?" Aramis asked, before he could stop himself.

Porthos broke into a wide smile.

"You are a true friend," he said happily.

"I try," Aramis replied soberly.

Soon, Porthos requested another pillow. Looking around, Aramis saw that the cots were all barren of pillows. He excused himself and went to the laundry to find one, returning to find Porthos with the empty tray in his hand.

"Can you ask Serge if he has any left-overs? I'm starvin'" he asked sweetly.

Aramis curled his fingers tightly into the pillow, before relinquishing it with a forced smile.

"Can you just tuck it behind me?" Porthos asked, his face a mask of innocence.

Aramis bit his tongue.

"Of course, mon ami," he replied, as he bent and placed the pillow just-so behind Porthos.

"Comfortable?"

"Very," Porthos replied, passing him the tray.

Aramis escaped the mess with this life, reappearing a short while later with a loaf of bread and hunk of cheese.

"Is this all he 'ad?" Porthos grumbled.

"Unfortunately, yes. But his left hook is still powerful. He only just missed me," Aramis muttered.

By the time Aramis rose to leave, he was exhausted.

"Do you 'ave to go?" Porthos asked, genuinely saddened.

oOo

The next day:

It was now Athos's turn to keep Porthos company.

Porthos was bored and restless. A challenging proposition.

Soon, he recognised the steady tread along the corridor, as Athos approached.

The door opened and Athos appeared. Reaching up he removed his hat and tilted his head toward Porthos.

"Before you make one of your suggestions," he said quietly, dropping his hat on a nearby table, "I am not playing cards with you and neither am I your errand-boy."

About to make one of his suggestions, Porthos closed his mouth.

It was then that he noticed the large tome that Athos had in his other hand.

"I'm 'ungry," he said, eyeing the book. "Are you 'ungry?"

"No, I am not," Athos replied.

"Thought not," Porthos muttered, sliding down in the bed.

"One day," Athos said, "You will no doubt distinguish yourself in battle. It would be a dereliction of my duty if I did not do all in my power to prepare you for such an honour."

He pulled the chair across and sat, hefting the large book onto his lap. It was a treatise on the art of war. Opening the book - at the beginning, Porthos noted - Athos began to read.

Porthos thought his voice sounded very monotonous, before realising that he had pitched it just-so.

The hours wore on.

Porthos willed the pages to turn.

Athos did not look up. He did not falter. His monotonous tone did not change.

By the time he closed the book, Porthos was exhausted.

Athos looked as fresh as the hour he walked in the room. How long ago was that? Seemed like last week.

Athos stood, moved across the room and picked up his hat.

"You're not going for Volume Two are you?" Porthos asked.

He received no response. Just a bored stare.

Porthos had the grace to look contrite.

He did not ask, "Do you 'ave to go?" this time.

Instead, he straightened his sheet and sniffed.

"Don't come back any time soon, Athos. My head's full of war theory. I'm sure I'll 'ave a lot to thank you for at some point. Consider your duty done."

Athos smiled and tilted his head, closing the door gently behind him.

Outside, he met up with Aramis and d'Artagnan and updated them.

"I am surprised he did not realise that we would compare notes," he said, as he dropped the heavy book on the table.

"How did you know I lost at cards with him?"

Athos and Aramis merely looked at him.

"You knew he'd play for favours!" d'Artagnan replied.

"d'Artagnan, please," Aramis smiled as he passed Athos a glass of wine.

"I've earned this," Athos said, downing it in one.

"I do not think we will be needed tonight," he said. "He is somewhat tired."

"The Wren?" Aramis asked.

"Absolutely," Athos replied.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	36. Don't Ask Me Again

**A/N:** Many thanks for continuing to follow these little indulgences! Over 30,000 views now, so some of you are reading them more than once, methinks!

Onward. Difficult times ahead.

oOo

 **36\. DON'T ASK ME AGAIN**

 **Porthos, Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan:**

Herbs were not enough for this.

Three times in the past, Athos had taken laudanum. Each time it appeared to be less effective and took longer to overcome. His constitution was such that each time, a little more was needed to effect unconsciousness for some injury or another. Now, he would take no more and he had pressed Aramis to hold the promise that he bade him comply with, should he not be able to consent.

It was a reluctant promise but Aramis had eventually given his word, for he could not deny Athos that wish, having seen for himself the result of the drugs effects upon him.

This then, was the dilemma.

The only solution was to be knocked unconscious.

There was no other solution and no-one else to do it. Aramis would have it no other way. Brothers helped brothers. He could not do it himself. He would need his hands to extract the musket ball from Athos's side. d'Artagnan's fingers were still not fully healed from their recent encounter with the Bossart brothers.

As it turned out, for Porthos, it was too much to ask.

"Hold him still, damn it!" Aramis hissed as he set about cutting through Athos's shirt to get to his side.

Porthos was doing his best, but the musket ball was deep and, Aramis suspected, it had fragmented. Athos was no longer coherent, being driven mad with pain. His usual quiet determination had fled and the situation was deteriorating.

It needed to be done now.

Pressed into the hard wooden table, Athos had started to struggle against Porthos's firm grip. Aramis would allow no others in here to see this and the three of them accepted that this was their role, which had to be seen through to its conclusion; whatever that would be.

Porthos met Aramis's eyes and understood what was expected. His heart sank. Punching a friend into unconsciousness was not something he relished, but Aramis insisted it was the only way.

He prepared himself, moving a little further back and flexing his fingers.

Just as he was preparing to land a smart punch to his jaw, Aramis spoke offhandedly, his eyes elsewhere.

"Don't break his jaw."

Porthos froze; he took a step back and opened his mouth to issue an angry rebuke to Aramis but the man was busy now, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for his instruments.

Porthos swallowed; his heart beginning to race. The words were seared in his brain.

 _Don't break his jaw._

He had broken jaws in the past. He had not given it a thought.

But this was Athos; and Athos was in pain.

Before Aramis could ask him again, Porthos reached down, grasping Athos's jaw and pulling his arm back; feeling the muscles bunch in his shoulder.

 _Don't break his jaw._

His hesitance was his downfall.

Athos rebelled to his touch.

He turned his head to release himself from Porthos's grasp, unaware of who had hold of him; just as Porthos released his fist.

What followed would remain with Porthos for a long time.

The fist slammed into the side of Athos's head, instead of his jaw, as intended.

Athos's head snapped to the side and bounced off the table. And he was still.

Porthos instantly pulled back, his back colliding with the wall behind him.

"I've killed him," he whispered, in horror.

Aramis put one hand firmly on Porthos's chest, before turning back to Athos and placing two fingers on his neck.

Porthos held his breath, wanting to slide down the wall, but his knees were locked.

"It's alright," Aramis said then, as if nothing had happened.

Had he not seen what Porthos had done?!

Porthos pushed his hand away and took a step forward but Aramis stepped in front of him.

"It's alright – you did your job, Porthos. I have to get on; step back please, my friend."

From the other end of the table, d'Artagnan met Porthos's haunted eyes. He had seen what had happened. He had seen Porthos's stunned reaction. He looked down and saw the red mark on the side of Athos's head and swallowed hard. He was about to speak on Porthos's behalf but Aramis was in no mood to discuss anything other than what he wanted them to do and before they knew it, they were pressed into service as Aramis began to probe for the fragmented musket ball in their very still brother's damaged side.

It was a challenge. Aramis had been right. The ball had fragmented into two pieces. The first was retrieved fairly quickly, but the remainder was buried deep and it was a tense and bloody business.

Porthos and d'Artagnan stayed by Aramis's side, swabbing at the wound and pressing a cold cloth to his forehead when the perspiration threatened to render him blind. Aramis's hand had started to shake from exhaustion when, after what seemed like an eternity in the warm cloying air of the infirmary, Aramis finally sighed and stepped back, the fragment held between the long metal pincers.

"He'll be alright now," he said quietly, without looking up, before dropping the fragment into the bowl beside him.

Porthos had faith in Aramis. They all had. He did as he was bid and poured brandy over the wound, as Aramis took up his needle, and d'Artagnan started to clear up the detrius of the episode.

Athos had not stirred during the whole time.

"What now?" they heard d'Artagnan whisper, at the end of the table.

"Now, we wait," Aramis said. "Get some rest."

Porthos, however, could not take his eyes from the bruise forming on Athos's temple.

oOo

Dr Lemay finally arrived, having been held up at the Palace. He offered profuse apologies, taking in the scene before him.

He took his time examining Athos; the others standing at the side of the room.

"The wound will heal," he said, searching for Aramis, who gave him a brief nod.

"I am more concerned about the bruise on his temple. How did that come about?"

No-one spoke, until Aramis looked from Porthos to Lemay.

"I see," the doctor said, understanding the silent dynamics immediately. "Well, what he needs now is sustenance. Can he swallow?"

"Yes," Aramis replied. "He has taken some watered ale. Nothing more."

"Then try oatmeal, when he wakes. Thinned with milk. Be sure to boil the milk first."

"He ain't a babe in arms," Porthos growled.

Lemay looked at him, his eyes soft at the sight of the struggling Musketeer, whose emotions were written across his face.

"That's exactly what he is," the doctor said.

Wishing to offer some comfort, Lemay took a step forward, but Porthos turned and slammed out of the room.

"Our apologies," Aramis murmured. "He is not taking this well."

"Of course," Lemay said, as he packed up his bag and made ready to leave.

Aramis went after Porthos, putting his hand on his arm and pulling him around.

"Why did you have to say it?" Porthos angrily rounded on him.

"Say what?" Aramis said, frowning.

Porthos shook off his hand and looked away.

"Porthos, why did I have to say what?"

Porthos turned back, his eyes blazing.

He was breathing heavily and Aramis felt the full heat of his friend's emotions.

"Don't break his jaw," he finally ground out through gritted teeth.

Aramis looked horrified.

"I don't remember ..." he whispered, realisation dawning that he was at fault here. "Oh, Porthos, I'm so sorry. Perhaps it was a flippant comment in the heat of the moment?"

"And what was I supposed to do with that? It threw me, Aramis. In that split second I doubted myself. I had to think, and that don't work when you need the element of surprise. It don't work for me and it don't work for Athos ..."

"Porthos, I'm sorry ..."

"So I took hold of 'is jaw, because I needed to be sure," Porthos said. "And he moved. He fought me. Turned to get out of my grasp. But my fist was on its way, and I hit him in the head. It happened that fast."

Porthos was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring.

Aramis reached for him but Porthos glared and raised a finger to within an inch his face, making him stop; defying any contact.

"Don't ask me again," he growled, before sinking down on the nearby bench and putting his head in his hands. "Don't ever ask me again."

Aramis looked up and realised the courtyard had gone quiet. All eyes were on them.

He looked away, before raking his hand through his hair and walking hesitantly back to the infirmary, the weight of Porthos's words making every step heavy.

Closing the infirmary door, he leaned back against it. Looking at Athos, all he saw was the bruise now forming on his temple, the result of his careless words.

Of course he knew Porthos's aim had not been true, but he had not realised his off the cuff remark had been the reason. He had blithely brushed his friend's fears aside, assuring him that Athos would be alright, not wanting to think otherwise.

He sank down at Athos's side.

"I have wronged you both," he whispered, as he lowered his head and started to silently weep.

oOo

d'Artagnan found Porthos later, sitting on the floor of the balcony outside Treville's empty office, his back to the wall.

d'Artagnan slid down beside him.

Neither spoke.

d'Artagnan could feel the emotions rolling off Porthos and he was loathe to break into his dark thoughts.

After a while, Porthos heaved himself to his feet and walked toward the stairs.

"Where are you going?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos faltered.

"I don't know," he finally said, sounding lost; teetering at the top of the stairs.

d'Artagnan rose and stood behind him. He put his hand gently on his shoulder. Even so, Porthos flinched and took one step down.

"Porthos, it's alright," d'Artagnan ventured.

"No, it's not! I'd rather force laudanum down 'is throat than hit 'im!"

"That would do him a disservice."

"What, and you think I haven't done that?" he shouted.

d'Artagnan flinched.

"I don't know why Athos won't take laudanum. You'll have to ask Aramis, but I do know he made him promise. It would go against everything Athos believes in if a promise made to him is broken. And what about Aramis?"

"What about me?!" Porthos yelled. Musketeers were turning and looking up at them now. Porthos was looking at d'Artagnan, his eyes full of hurt. "What about me?" he said softly, his voice breaking. He curled his fist up and took hold of it with his other hand.

"Easy," d'Artagnan whispered. "What do you need?"

Porthos looked at him, his face a mask of sadness.

"I need yesterday," he said. "When he was alright, and not felled by my hand."

"Porthos ..." d'Artagnan said, but Porthos cut him off.

"Ain't nothing you can say. Ain't nothing anyone can say," he said, before walking slowly down the stairs.

d'Artagnan watched him walk toward the bath house where he heard the door slam and the board fall into place, locking him in.

Porthos wanted to be alone.

oOo

"He is not angry with you," Aramis said later from the doorway behind him, as d'Artagnan sat with Athos.

d'Artagnan had been miserable since his encounter with Porthos.

"Who then?" d'Artagnan muttered. "I only wanted to help him."

"Me," Aramis replied. "Himself."

"Athos won't blame him," d'Artagnan said with conviction, looking at Aramis with such intensity, he had to look away.

"No," he replied with a sigh, "He won't."

oOo

When Treville returned from the Palace, d'Artagnan appraised him of the situation.

"Who else was there?" Treville asked gruffly, when told that Porthos had been elected to send Athos into oblivion.

"Serge, Jacques and one-eyed Florian," d'Artagnan replied.

Treville sighed.

"Where is he now?"

"He's locked himself away," d'Artagnan replied.

"Leave him be. Once Athos wakes, Porthos will be comforted."

oOo

At some point, Porthos found his way back to the infirmary.

Sad and lost, he was drawn to his sick friend.

Standing quietly in the doorway, he saw that Aramis had dressed Athos in a thin muslin shirt.

"I would 'ave helped you with that," Porthos murmured.

Aramis walked towards him and smiled.

"He is a very compliant patient," he said.

Far from comforting Porthos, that only made his eyes fill.

"I am sorry, my friend," Aramis said quickly, "I seem to be saying all the wrong things," he added, before pulling Porthos into a brotherly hug; grateful when it was accepted.

Patting him on the back, Aramis pulled away.

"Stay with him. d'Artagnan has gone to chivvy Serge along with the oatmeal. I'll go and see where he is."

It was an excuse of course, but Porthos was grateful for it.

Aramis padded softly from the room, leaving Porthos staring down at Athos. Again, he only saw the bruise that had spread across his temple.

Sitting down by the bed, he was loathe to touch him, afraid of hurting him further.

Athos was still, though Porthos saw that his lips had parted and he seemed to be breathing through his mouth now, his breaths not quite even.

Porthos watched each breath for a while, before he reached an unsteady hand across and laid it over the pale hand on the sheet.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, his usually deep voice breaking; seeming alien to his ears. "I'm so sorry."

There was no response.

After a while, he reached an arm behind Athos's shoulders and pulled him to his chest and held him close.

oOo

When Aramis stepped back into the infirmary, he saw that Porthos was cradling Athos against his chest.

"Porthos, you should not ..." he said, taking a step forward.

"Its no different from when you give him water," Porthos growled. "Do you think I can't be gentle, like you?"

Aramis sighed and ran his hand through his unruly hair.

"I'm sorry Porthos, of course not," he replied. After a few moments, he added "I should not have said what I did."

Porthos raised angry eyes at him.

"About me breakin' his jaw? Well, it's true, isn't it? I've done it before, plenty of times."

"In battle," Aramis said gently. "In a brawl, yes. But never with one of us."

Porthos did not reply, tightening his arms around Athos, though still holding him infinitely gently; Athos's head resting loosely on his shoulder.

"Well, it's true now, isn't it?!" he repeated angrily.

"Lay him down, Porthos," Aramis said quietly.

Porthos did not respond and Aramis let him be.

A short while later, Aramis leaned in and deftly pulled the bandage aside to check Athos's wound. Satisfied, he hummed to himself. All seemed well in that regard.

Just then, Porthos felt Athos shudder.

Wide-eyed, he looked down at the man in his arms.

Athos was pulling in air through his teeth, his hand reaching up to take hold of Porthos's shirt in a tight fist.

Porthos pushed his hair back from his damp forehead.

"Ssshhhhhhh, I've got you," he muttered.

He looked quickly at Aramis for guidance, and Aramis smiled at him, glad of the acknowledgement. Porthos's anger was quickly slipping away.

They both held their breath, waiting for Athos to speak. To recognise them.

Finally, Athos cracked open his eyes.

They waited.

"Do you know who we are, mon ami?" Aramis whispered.

After a few moments, Athos drew in a shaking breath.

"Of course. Where is the other one?" Athos grunted.

He felt Porthos's rumbled laughter through his chest, and they were granted one of Athos's rare smiles.

Aramis reached over and picked up the herbal pain relief he had waiting and passed it to Porthos.

"Keep him company, Porthos," he said, before making a strategic retreat.

Porthos had something to say to Athos.

oOo

Athos was very quiet.

Porthos was reluctant to let him go until he knew he was alright.

So far, further words had fallen on deaf ears.

Then, Athos swallowed heavily a few times; no doubt against a rebellious stomach. Porthos had no doubt that Athos was suffering from a concussion. It only served to keep him as still as possible, until his friend's vision cleared and his stomach eased.

Every so often Athos shuddered.

There was blood loss to consider, of course, but Porthos was under no illusion that the extra pain and discomfort that Athos bore was down to him.

Porthos felt his eyes prickle. He was struggling to maintain his composure. Finally, he raised his hand and swiped at his eyes and down his face, sighing loudly and sniffing back a sound that may betray him.

"I hope you're thinking," he muttered to himself, as Athos remained still in his arms.

Athos suddenly shifted, taking him by surprise.

"Porthos ..."

Porthos looked down.

"Hmmm?" It was the only sound he dare make, lest he make a fool of himself.

"I am sorry," Athos whispered.

Stunned, Porthos opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

"I understand what happened," Athos continued, his voice weak. He had obviously been reflecting in his long silence;

"You have been asked to do something you did not wish to do, because of the promise I placed on Aramis."

"S'alright," Porthos said quietly.

"No," Athos said, shifting to look up, grimacing in pain and taking a few steadying breaths, before he was ready to continue.

"What did you hit me with?"

"What do you think?"

He felt Athos start to drift off.

"Want to lay back down?"

Athos thought for a moment.

"No; fine here."

Porthos pulled him a little closer.

"Thought I'd killed you."

"Still here."

"We'll have to keep waking you up if you fall asleep, just to make sure you're alright."

"Alright."

But Porthos was not finished.

"I've laid you low, Athos."

"That you have, but it is better than laudanum."

"With laudanum, you wake up numb. With a fist you have twice the pain," Porthos growled.

"But it takes me longer to recover from laudanum. Trust me, Porthos. I'd take your fist any day. I am sorry to have put you in that position."

"S'alright," Porthos hummed.

"It is not alright," Athos insisted. "I did not think it through. It was selfish of me. I shall retract the promise and release Aramis from it."

"No you can't!" Porthos cried. "You had good reason. I understand that now."

Athos grew quiet.

"Let us make a deal then," he eventually said.

"What deal would that be?" Porthos replied softly, smiling down at his friend.

"If you need to render me unconscious in the future, we agree that you hold back, and that I do not move."

"I did hold back," Porthos replied, finally realising that Aramis's words had made him do just that. "That was me, holdin' back, you noddle," he added.

"Then, if it is possible, I promise I will not move."

Porthos laughed.

"Alright. I'll 'old you to that." he said. "But you can be quite feisty when you want to be."

"You are a true friend," Athos replied weakly, sounding drunk. "You all are. I do not deserve you."

"Now then," Porthos growled. "None of that."

"But I will still release Aramis from his promise," Athos said.

"Shall I tell Aramis you release him, or will you?" Porthos asked then.

Athos closed his eyes.

"I had better do it. I need to apologise to him too. I asked too much of him."

"This has turned on its head, but I'll not argue. Seems I said some things to d'Artagnan and Aramis that I need to make amends on," Porthos said.

"I am sure they will forgive you, under the circumstances."

"Think you can take some of Aramis's concoction now?"

"Don't push it," Athos slurred.

Porthos laughed, easing Athos down onto his pillows and fussing around him.

"Thank you, Athos," Porthos said, his voice full of love.

But Athos was asleep.

Ooo

Awww. Thanks for reading, and to everyone I cannot thank personally. More soon.


	37. Reunion

Back to Chapter 1, Dear readers, for a follow-up. Things are about to get very uncomfortable.

oOo

 **37\. REUNION**

 **Athos:**

Athos knew how to compartmentalise.

He had turned it into an art. Everything he had experienced was stored in its own mental compartment. Every joy, every pain, every hurt, every hope; stored away tightly.

One of them was about to break open and threaten his careful construction, and perhaps the peace of France itself.

oOo

"His name is Morales," Treville said. "He says he has a proposition for the King from the Spanish Ambassador in Madrid."

"So why did he seek you out?" Athos enquired, as he stood before Treville's overcrowded desk.

Treville sighed and rubbed a hand down his face.

"He says he once made the acquaintance of a Musketeer and trusts that we are honourable men who will see him safely to the King. And he is sporting an injury. Aramis will treat him here and then we will escort him to the Palace in the morning."

"Do you believe him?" Athos said, as they moved onto the balcony to watch their comrades spar.

"Do I have a choice?" Treville replied. "This is the first expression of a possible peace resolution for a long time. The King has agreed to hear him out and we are tasked with getting him to the Palace safely."

"Which means treating his wound."

"Yes, he and his travelling companion were set upon as they crossed into France. Morales survived with a wound to his upper arm. It is a testament to his strength of will that he was able to make his way to the nearest church, where he sent word of his mission. It is not a life-threatening wound, but needs treating."

Porthos and Aramis had set out and were currently escorting the man back.

"They are due within the hour," Treville said. "We'll keep him in one of the rooms in the infirmary, rather than the lock-up."

"That is a more honourable option," Athos smiled. "But we should put a guard on the door," he added.

"I had Poulard in mind for that duty," Treville said, looking at his Lieutenant.

Athos nodded. "I will see to it," Athos said quietly, as he took his leave and headed to the barracks.

oOo

Athos put the key in the lock and turned it forward and back. Assured that it worked, he passed it to Poulard, who was standing at his side.

"The Captain will want to talk to this man but first we will transfer him to this room. In the morning, he will be escorted to the Palace. Your duty is here, from the moment he enters, until the moment he leaves. Send word to me personally when you need to be relieved. Otherwise, your meals will be brought here to you."

"Aye, Sir," Poulard replied, curling his fist around the iron key.

He was a stout fellow and could be relied upon. Athos dismissed him until he was needed, took a last look around the room and strode out into the courtyard to await the man's arrival. They would show him common courtesy and ensure his safety until such time as he was handed over to the Palace Guards the following day.

A short while later, the guard on the wall let it be known that incoming riders were approaching.

To the sound of horse's hooves on cobblestones, the small party made their way through the archway and into the yard. Athos removed his hat and wiped his face, as Porthos dismounted almost before his horse had stopped, taking hold of their guest's reins.

"The Musketeer Garrison, Senor Morales," Aramis said, as he too dismounted and waited for the man to do the same.

Athos was standing at the foot of the stairs, ready to show their guest to his room.

Morales dismounted carefully, favouring his left arm, and Aramis steadied him as his feet touched the yard. He was tall in stature, dressed entirely in black, with ornate lace at collar and cuff. His black hair was flecked with grey, but his beard was neat and devoid of any signs of age. His nose was long and thin, and his eyes hooded, giving him an imperious appearance. His recent trial was evident by the tear in his cloak and the mud on his boots, notwithstanding the gash on his upper arm, tied with a makeshift bandage that Athos recognised as Aramis's doing.

The black stallion he rode rivalled Roger in his beauty and power.

"Gracias, Musketeer," the man said, "Paris is a handsome city, it seems. I will look forward to meeting your King in the morning."

Athos suddenly tensed and the air left his lungs.

It could not be...

 _This could not be happening._

oOo

Athos looked up at Treville, who was still on the balcony. His Captain had no love for the Spanish, and he would see the man when he had been settled. Until then, he had tasked Athos with escorting him to his allotted room in the infirmary.

Treville nodded and then signalled for Aramis to come to his office for his report.

Athos realised he needed to move, but his feet were suddenly numb. Aramis directed Morales over to him but before he could introduce them, Athos turned on his heel.

"This way, Senor," he said curtly, leaving Aramis bemused by his friend's unusual lack of manners. He looked across at Porthos, who shrugged and turned the horses in order to lead them into the stable, as Aramis bolted up the stairs to join Treville.

oOo

Across the yard, Musketeer Poulard had seen their arrival and hurriedly fell into step behind Athos.

Also following behind Athos, Morales looked toward the building he was being led toward.

"Where are we going?" he asked quietly.

Athos did not turn. "To the infirmary, where your wound will be treated."

Athos strode on, his face set in a mask. Once inside, he led Morales to the allotted room, opened the door and waved him inside.

"Please wait in here."

Morales stepped inside, seemingly glad to see a bed. He untied his cloak and sat down, drawing it around him; his back straight.

Athos stared at him for a few moments, before stepping outside and waving his hand at Poulard to close and lock the door.

Poulard nodded and did as he was bid.

Athos let out a breath as the man disappeared behind the locked door.

"You know your duty," he said to Poulard, before turning and walking out without a backward glance.

How he got out of that building, he had no idea. Unable to trust himself to speak, he was grateful to see that Porthos and Aramis were nowhere to be seen, as he found his way to the stable where he sank onto a bale of hay. Holding out his hand, he saw the fine tremour coursing through his fingers, before putting his head in his hands.

He felt trapped. This was his cross to bear. He knew that if Aramis or Porthos realised who the man was, any semblance of courtesy and honour would be lost, as would any hope of the man reaching the Palace. He found himself in the unenviable situation of protecting the man from his friends, when he did not know if he could yet protect him from himself.

The sun was shining, but the world had suddenly gone very dark.

oOo

Inside the stable, Athos was losing his battle.

The man he had thrust into the dark crevices of his mind, who only emerged when Athos was at his lowest, was a mere few feet away. Expecting courtesy and treatment.

Athos could feel his blood coursing hot in his veins. His chest heaved with the struggle to breathe, his mind screamed at the injustice of this day. His hand curled around the hilt of his sword, and he slowly raised his head; his eyes staring at the white infirmary building that housed the devil of his dreams.

Losing his battle, he leapt to his feet.

oOo

A little later:

On his way to see Morales and deal with his wound, Aramis was surprised when he passed Poulard in the corridor. He stopped and spun around.

"Wait. Why have you left your post?"

Poulard shifted under Aramis's stern look.

"The Lieutenant dismissed me."

"When?"

"A few moments ago."

"Your keys," Aramis said, holding out his hand.

"He took them."

Aramis turned and ran the length of the corridor and slammed into the room.

It was empty.

One of the doors at the end of the infirmary stood open; empty too.

The other was shut. There was no key in the lock.

Aramis groaned softly.

It had been locked from the inside.

Athos must have slipped into the room and locked himself in with its occupant and Aramis's fears were confirmed

He had considered Athos's odd demeanour since they had brought the man into the Garrison.

Now, he knew.

Morales was the man who had captured and tortured Athos in a dark hell-hole of a dungeon for six days, two years ago.

The man they had referred to as The Spaniard;

Athos's nemesis.

oOo

There was no sign of Athos's weapons belt. This should have been a consolation to Aramis. At least he was armed. Morales was, of course, unarmed, save for the documents he held on his person that they had not felt inclined to remove from him. Any such action may have jeopardised his supposed offer of a treaty. Such matters were delicate. Morales had indicated he believed the Musketeers to be honourable men, and so his document remained with him.

There was the matter of his injury. He would need treatment. What was Athos's intentions? Aramis's mind flew back two years to the words spoken between them in the very room he had now locked himself in.

" _He was a strange type of soldier."_

" _Why do you say that?" Aramis had responded._

" _He knew his wine."_

" _He taunted you?"_

" _Somewhat."_

" _And the whipping?" Aramis had asked gently._

" _ **I** taunted him."_

Athos had had such acomplex relationship with the Spaniard whilst in captivity. He almost admitted admiring him. But as a predator, he later qualified. He had obviously been deeply affected by him. For all the Spaniard's intellect, the man was cruel in the extreme and Athos's back was a testament to that; and so, it seemed, his mind was, after all this time. Athos could be awkward and stubborn and had admitted goading the man. He could now only question the state of his friend's mind, confronted by him once more.

"Oh, Athos, don't do anything foolish," he whispered, looking at the closed door. "It will be the death of you; from a King you have sworn to protect."

Louis would not tolerate such an act, despite the circumstances. This was an official visit. Morale's proposal was for the King's ears only. He would be heard.

oOo

Aramis found Porthos in the stables and asked him quietly to accompany him back to the infirmary.

There, and sure they could not be overheard, he appraised him of his fears. Porthos was all for breaking down the door, but Aramis pulled him away.

"As much as I want to do that, we cannot," Aramis declared, as he began to pace. "Athos would not forgive us. We have to buy him time!"

"How do we do that?" Porthos growled.

"I'll tell the Captain."

"What?! He'll 'ave Athos dragged out and flogged."

"You're right," Aramis said, as he stopped pacing and ran his hand through his hair. "Even Treville has his limits. Stay here."

"Where are you goin'?"

"Stay here, and stay quiet. No distracting Athos into acting hastily."

"When has 'e ever done that?!"

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder soberly. "There's always a first time," he said grimly, before hurrying out.

"Well, have you treated him?" Treville asked gruffly, a few minutes later as Aramis appeared in his office, his attention half on the mountain of paperwork in front of him.

"No, not yet," Aramis replied and Treville's head snapped up, pinning him with a steely gaze.

"He was exhausted from the journey. He's asleep. I saw no reason to wake him."

Treville considered and then looked back at his paperwork.

"Alright, if you think his injury does not require immediate attention."

Aramis breathed out carefully, maintaining his nonchalant demeanour.

"I believe not, Captain. He shows no signs otherwise."

Treville nodded and reached for his pen, effectively dismissing him.

Aramis gave a small tilt of his head and turned to leave. His hand was on the door handle when Treville spoke again.

"Send Athos up here, we have plans to make for tomorrow."

oOo

Earlier, in the infirmary, Morales had looked up as the door was unlocked.

"Are you the Musketeer medic? I was told to expect him," he asked, eyebrow arched imperiously.

When Athos did not reply, the Spaniard planted his feet in a firm stance. Suspicious when he received no response, he spoke again, his tone level.

"Then, you are here to interrogate me," he said. "I understand. I am told Musketeers are honourable, not stupid. You want to ensure I am here in good faith."

It would suffice to allow him to think that, Athos thought to himself as he took the man in.

Back then, he had not seen the Spaniard's face clearly. The dungeon was dark and his tormentor was careful. But the boots were the same finely tooled leather; the same distinctive shape. It was his voice that had confirmed it. The precise pronunciation, the tilt of the words, the taper of the sentences. Now he was certain and his world suddenly tilted, throwing him once again into the lonely void that had enveloped him two years ago.

He had not known his name, just as the man had not know his. Athos gave him nothing, apart from the knowledge he was one of the King's elite guards, which Morales had only gleaned from his uniform and pauldron.

He had a name now for the Spaniard he had kept company with for six agonising days.

His mental and physical abuser now stood arrogantly before him.

Athos carefully closed and locked the door.

oOo

Athos slowly removed his weapons belt and placed it on the end of the bed.

"Have you met many Musketeers, Senor Morales?" he asked finally, his voice low.

Morales removed his cloak and threw it on a nearby chair, before he replied.

"Some," he replied.

"And do any of those men," Athos said, carefully, "remain in your mind?"

Morales watched him.

"No, not in particular."

That was not what Athos wanted to hear.

"Although," Morales added, considering him, "Now that I think of it, one stays with me."

Athos did not reply, as they contemplated each other.

With a smile that turned Athos's stomach, Morales leaned forward. "I remembered you the moment I saw you outside.

"We made a pact, you and I, as I remember," Morales said softly, standing and walking toward Athos.

"You offered me life or death," Athos replied, his eyes never leaving Morale's face. "I chose to live."

"And by that choice, I lived too," Morales replied. "But that was your intention, was it not, Musketeer?" he added, tilting his head. "For me to live with my _debasement_ , brought about by your hand."

"I am Athos."

Morales laughed. "You seek to humanise this "relationship?" He sneered, waving his hand between them. "It is a little late for that, Senor!"

Morales patted his doublet.

"I have here, the first steps to a compromise between our two countries. I warn you now, be careful."

His meaning was clear. _Kill me, kill the possible peace solution_.

"You think I want to kill you?" Athos asked quietly.

"Why would you not? Plenty do." Morales stared at him with black soulless eyes, devoid of emotion.

Athos bore his gaze.

"Ah, you wish to _understand_ me," Morales sneered. "You think that that dungeon was my world. You think me devoid of art and culture. And love."

"I have no desire to understand you, _Seno_ r," Athos replied tersely.

"Of course you do, Musketeer. Why else would you be here!" Morales laughed.

Athos had not moved, his back pressed to the door, but now the Spaniard walked toward him and the sound of his boots echoing on the stone flagstones brought a wave of nausea to his stomach. It was one of the memories he had attempted to bury. Sometimes, those black leather boots had been the very limit of his vision and the catalyst of his pain.

"You are a soldier, Musketeer," Morales continued. "No doubt you bear many scars," he said, each word precisely enunciated, as Athos remembered. "I too bear scars. One of them stands before me," he again waved his hand loosely at Athos.

"I remember every man I tortured. I recognised you the moment I saw you outside. It took _you_ a little longer. Now, you want to meet the monster once more. Perhaps I wanted to as well."

"You think me a monster because I survived?"

"Many survived. Many defied me, initially," Morales said. "But no-one _willed_ me on. No-one infuriated me to such a degree; _inspired_ me to debase myself...

" _Until you_."

He was too close now. Athos stiffened, but he had nowhere to go, his back to the door. Thankfully, Morales spun around and walked away, but his next words however, were brutal.

"I wonder still, Musketeer, did some part of you relish the whip? Perhaps _that_ is the monster in _you_."

"It was my duty to survive."

"Of course it was. And what of my duty?"

"Your duty was to torment."

"It was. And you carry my scars on your back, but I carry _your_ mark too. That was your intention, was it not? To torment your tormentor?"

"You and I," he added, "Are one and the same."

"No, Senor," Athos's voice was deadly, "We are not."

"Both of noble birth. You think I do not recognise it? Both bound to our King. Both trained in our particular brutal field? Both suppressing our true emotions and willing to risk limb, life and sanity for, what, I wonder? The vanity of our rulers?"

"You speak treason," Athos growled.

"If you like."

"And did you relish delivering your punishments?" Athos asked, before he could stop himself.

"Oh, sometimes, I confess, I did.

"I have great experience in taking men apart," Morales said, watching him. "Fortunately, I did not have to put them back together," he smiled, before leaning forward.

"War makes monsters of men, Musketeer, despite their intentions. I enjoyed the ingenuity my work afforded me. I was able to hone my skills on _you_ , my friend.

"Do you remember how I took my time with you? How careful I was?

" _Better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly,_ " he said, conspiratorially.

"Plato," Athos replied, quietly.

Morales raised his eyebrow, and gave Athos a flamboyant bow in acknowledgement.

" _The measure of a man is what he does with power_ ," Athos replied, pointedly staring at him.

"Plato again," Morales smiled. "Touche, as you French say."

"We are not all savages, Morales," Athos growled in answer to the slight.

"Oh, I have met many fine savages, Senor," Morales laughed. "I doubt that your dark-skinned friend is over-burdened with finesse."

"I believe," Athos ground out, "that Porthos would think it was you who lacked finesse, however much your "ingenuity" comforts you."

It was Morales' turn to stiffen; the insult apparently hitting its mark.

"You are no philosopher, Morales," Athos stated.

Morales, though, was not finished.

"Who put you back together?" he asked, amiably. "The one who put this bandage on? He is a Spaniard, is he not? What sweet irony."

Athos did not respond, but his hand curled into a tight fist; the blood pounding in his ears.

"I had the dark-skinned Musketeer in my sights," Morales added suddenly.

Athos remained perfectly still, though he struggled to maintain his composure. During his recovery, Athos was aware that Porthos had ridden out after the man, his desire to kill too strong to ignore, and that he had returned unfulfilled in his wish. At the time, Athos did not care, satisfied he had left his own mark on the Spaniard's psyche. Too exhausted to consider it further. Relieved that Porthos had returned unharmed.

The Spaniard saw the change in Athos's breathing.

He could see that that had struck a chord. Versed in the art of reading people, he was beginning to get the measure of this Musketeer, here on his own territory, encumbered by his precious brotherhood.

"I can see now that would have been an added punishment for you," he whispered viciously. "A missed opportunity."

Athos had heard enough. He was aching to kick the man into oblivion.

"And you expect us to believe that now you seek peace?" Athos responded, keeping his antagonist under cold observation.

Morales sighed, turning to look through the window.

"Perhaps I am tired," he murmured.

"Of what?"

The Spaniard turned and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Of peering into men's souls."

He observed Athos for a long moment; scrutinizing him.

"Perhaps," he whispered, "You are tired of peering into yours too, hmm? Time to move on."

Athos looked at his weapon belt, lying on the bed. He had intended an equal footing for this encounter but now he was suddenly aware of the blade in his boot, and his fingers itched.

Morales moved his arm and grimaced.

"You wish to withhold treatment and allow my wound to fester?"

Athos did not know what he wanted, but he knew that was not something he had considered. Aramis would not tolerate that.

Perhaps if he knew who this man was, he may think differently.

Right now, he was not sure he cared.

oOo

 **Treville's Office:**

"Where's Athos!" Treville demanded, when Aramis returned to continue his deception.

"Morales wanted to visit the Cathedral tomorrow after he sees the King," he replied, the lie slipping easily from his lips. "Athos has ridden to make the arrangements. My apologies, he was gone before I could tell him you wanted to see him."

Treville rubbed his eyes.

"And you have treated Morales now?"

"Yes," Aramis replied - another lie – he would need to spend some time in Confession for this, he thought to himself.

"He is resting again," he added, looking his Captain in the eye.

"Very well," Treville sighed. "I have some paperwork to do, so I will see him later. Let me know when Athos returns.

"Yes, Captain," Aramis almost saluted him, before he caught himself, so relieved that Treville had believed his fabrication. He would have to ensure Morales was treated before he was presented to Treville. He headed back to the infirmary, where Porthos was standing guard outside the room.

Aramis nodded to him before pressing his ear to the locked door. No sound could be heard.

"What is he doing in there?" he breathed, looking at Porthos in despair.

"Whatever it is, he's bein' quiet about it. You think he's gone out the window?"

"No," Aramis replied. "If Athos has despatched him, he will walk out here and hand himself in.

"Are you sure Morales is unarmed?" he added.

"Searched 'im myself," Porthos grunted.

"Time is running out," Aramis whispered.

Inside the room, Athos was also aware that time was running out. He was still unsure as to how it would end. No doubt his friends were out there, and they had both probably figured out who the man was.

The thought did not cheer him.

oOo

"You are right, I am no philosopher. My pursuits have been more physical then cerebral, I agree," the Spaniard said. "Though I think you will agree, I was inventive, and that can be mentally taxing.

"You are twenty years too late to reform me," he added. "I may have welcomed your intervention once."

"That is my tragedy," Athos said, as he turned away.

Morales was picking up on Athos's small movements; fingernails biting into his palm; pupils dilating; changes in his breathing, in his colouration.

"You helped create this monster," Morales said, tapping himself on the chest. "Surely you know that?

You desired to bring out the worst in me. Have you ever considered that your actions may have only served to make me less patient? More cruel? More inventive? More determined to succeed? Did you think of that?"

Athos's blood ran cold. _Surely to God not ..._

" _No,"_ he gasped, his voice betraying him.

"You will never know will you?" Morales said, stepping toward him.

"Of course, you can kill me," Morales hissed, "but then your King will kill you too. Your friends can kill me; but they will die as well."

"And," he added, patting his doublet smugly, "The treaty will be forfeit. It will be France's loss. What a responsibility."

Athos had not known what he wanted from this man. To see him in the light of day? To see if he had changed? Now he thought how misguided of him to think he could change this Spaniard. He had given him pause for thought two years ago, but if what Morales said was true; because the man had not broken him, that had only spurred him on to darker deeds? What a terrible thought!

"You are wondering if what I said was true."

Athos's head shot up, unnerved by how close Morales was to the truth of his current thoughts.

"You want answers? I have none for you. Suffice to say, everything bad you thought of me, is no doubt true. You were my toy for a while. And now, you are my protector. You do not win today, _Athos_ , whichever way you look at it."

Athos could feel the hot blood coursing through his veins. He could feel his hands wanting to crush the life out of this Spaniard, who stood in front of him. He was a loathsome man, through and through. Any doubts he had otherwise had been banished within these four walls.

"Checkmate, Senor," Morales said in a low deadly voice, before turning away.

Athos wanted to thrust his blade through the man's neck, to splatter his blood across the walls, to see the light die in his eyes and hear the death rattle in his throat. But he could not. Morales was right. The game had turned from him, and he was in check.

"Is that enough for you?" Morales was saying, as the red mist began to fade from Athos's eyes.

"If I am telling the truth, that your actions made me more cruel, you condemned many of your countrymen to indescribable pain at my hands. If not, you saved them."

Athos stared at him, breathing hard, his chest constricted.

"You will never know, will you?" he shrugged.

" _That_ , Musketeer, is _my_ legacy to _you_."

"You are not human," Athos uttered, in shock.

"Oh, and let us not speak of this encounter, _Monsieur,_ " Morales continued, ignoring Athos's reaction. _"_ It would serve no purpose for my former reputation to precede my discussions with your Captain and your King. The same goes for your friends. From what I have seen of them, they would most likely act on your behalf if my identity were to be discovered. And let us be correct, I have done nothing wrong, committed no crime, save serve my country! The only casualties would be your friends. And your _beloved_ country,"

He patted his doublet once more, his threat clear;

"It is my duty to deliver this document safely on behalf of my country. Whether it is my _wish_ ," he murmured, "That is another matter."

"You planned all of this," Athos inwardly seethed; biting down another impulse to launch himself at the devil before him.

"Let us just say, an opportunity arose," his antagonist smiled.

"Do not be too hard on yourself! I enjoyed both of our encounters immensely."

The Spaniard sighed, peering at his hands, before cracking his knuckles.

"I trust I will see you in the morning, when you escort me safely to your King.

"Now," he hissed, his calm demeanour vanishing and a cold anger rising, "If that is all, send me your medic. I have waited long enough."

There was nothing Athos could say. He was in an impossible position.

All he could do was protect his friends and protect France … and in order to do that, he had to protect Morales; his tormentor.

His duty and his honour demanded it.

Controlling his anger, he strode to the bed and picked up his sword belt. He buckled it on slowly, before turning back to Morales. For a moment, under the Musketeer's deadly glare, the Spaniard's demeanour faltered.

"Do not think," Athos ground out, taking hold of the handle of the door, "That this is over."

oOo

Outside, Aramis and Porthos anxiously waited.

The door was suddenly flung open and Athos emerged.

Aramis leapt to his feet and hurried over to him, his eyes questioning. Athos's heart lurched as he looked from him to Porthos, who was standing by the window; his face a mask of anger. He knew that Porthos would tear Morales to pieces at a single word.

Athos reached behind him and pulled his gloves from his belt.

Duty and honour.

Aramis could see behind him that Morales was indeed alive and he breathed a sigh of relief, as Athos handed him the key.

"Athos?" he asked, as he watched his friend pulling his gloves slowly onto his hands, deliberately pushing the soft leather down between each finger.

With each movement, Aramis watched his friend closing off.

Moments ticked by.

Athos raised his eyes and looked steadily at him.

"It's not him," he said, before turning and walking away.

oOo

Thanks for reading. More soon!


	38. Portrait of a Tender Heart

**A/N** : This one is for Helen: you know why.

oOo

 **38\. PORTRAIT OF A TENDER HEART**

 **Porthos and Athos** :

After a fraught few days, Porthos assists Athos to drink.

oOo

Athos's hand is twisting in the sheet as Porthos approaches.

With whispered words that only the two of them can hear, Porthos quietly sits on the bed and slips his arm behind Athos's shoulders.

Green eyes open then, but they are unfocussed and do not seek his; staring unblinking at the shuttered window across from them as the early morning sun fights its way through the wooden slats.

Porthos follows his gaze briefly, before returning to his task.

He raises the half bottle of fortified wine to his friend's lips, resting it there gently until awareness comes and they part, just a little; until the wine flows slowly, slowly down the parched throat.

Cradled in the crook of Porthos's arm, Athos cannot see his benefactor's face from the raised angle in which he is now held, but Porthos can see his.

He swallows. Not acknowledging, nor seeking to know who helps him, but accepting what he is offered each time and that is more than good enough for Porthos; he will take that.

Each offering is carefully measured, each swallow intently watched, because Athos is not fully conscious; but he is aware. Silently accepting. Trusting now.

Grateful lips part each time the bottle touches his mouth.

Porthos watches each swallow and is ready each time his brother's lips part, silently seeking more. He is reminded of a babe, who quietly takes each offering, absently, though intent. Though, _God_ _p_ _reserve_ _h_ _im_ , he does not voice that thought.

"Easy now, easy," he murmurs, with a smile in his voice. "No need to rush."

He frowns in careful concentration and is content to wait for however long this takes.

And if this is all Porthos achieves today, he will be content.

The only sound in the room is his own soft humming, a result of his concentration.

Athos is momentarily distracted by dust motes, dancing like diamonds in a patch of sunlight in front of him. Porthos watches him for a few moments and then he smiles and gently brings him back with a soft nudge of his arm.

Broken from his reverie, Athos twists his head and looks up at him. His forehead creases upward in that way he has, his eyes wide and so bright that Porthos has to look away, as he looks so young and for a moment, he sees the lost boy in him.

He knows about lost boys.

Athos leans contentedly into him then and Porthos blinks back the unwanted sting behind his eyes and swallows hard.

The bottle is raised and accepted once more and Porthos's low laughter trickles through his own hitched breaths, rumbling in his chest.

Not a drop is spilt.

 _That_ is the tale he will tell when this is over. When they have their table at The Wren and they are lost in the business of forgetting. Remembering other days that did not smack of mortality and loss.

His eyes sting once more at the thought but he smiles when he thinks of Athos's reaction when he hears that his throat caught more than his beard.

Porthos continues to hum as he raises the bottle to the light and gently shakes it. It is nearly empty now.

Athos's eyes slide shut but he still accepts what is offered; though Porthos is careful now, watching for signs of sleep. Twice Porthos is caught out, until those ocean-like eyes blink open again and he laughs quietly as he offers the last drops.

Porthos dips his arm and tilts Athos's towsled head back to allow the last drop to pass his lips and then he lowers his head to the pillow.

Soothed by the soporific wine, the frantic hand is still now, the face softer. The lines which have been deepened by pain of late are softer too.

Finally, Porthos is sure that sleep has overtaken him and he gently retrieves his arm, somewhat numb now from its enforced position.

He puts the empty bottle gently on the floor and sighs softly.

Athos bends one knee in sleep, his foot escaping the sheet and Porthos reaches down and pulls the sheet in place once more. For good measure, he leans over and pulls the sheet up over his friend's shoulder and tucks it in.

Looking up, he sees Aramis smiling at him from his seat at the table across the room.

He is embarrassed at being caught in his tenderness.

"What?" he murmurs gruffly and somewhat contrary to the scene he presents.

"You have the kindest heart, querido."

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	39. Portrait of a Tender Heart (2)

A/N: Some of you wanted to know the backstory to Chapter 38, "Portrait of a Tender Heart," particularly how Athos came to be injured. Then **ficklescribbler** (thank you!) gave me an Athos prompt, so I put the two together – and here is the sequel, some of it told in _flashbacks_.

oOo

 **39\. PORTRAIT OF A TENDER HEART (2)**

 **Athos and friends:**

 _ **Five days before:**_

 _ **Flashback:**_

 _Athos had quickly become surrounded. His cloak hampered him. Pushed into the wall and surrounded, there was nothing he could do. The pistol pressed up into his jaw had him holding up his hands._

 _Across the prison yard, Aramis and Porthos pulled their prisoner, Hugo Crevier aside and behind them._

 _Their orders were to hand him over to guards in the courtyard of the Chatelet, but things seemed have taken a precarious turn. It was not the assigned guards who met them but a rabble of six convicts, who had obviously overpowered the guards and taken over the wing._

" _Hand him over," one of the prisoners shouted, pointing at Crevier._

" _Not a chance," Porthos yelled back, as Crevier stood impassively behind him._

" _Hand him over, or this one dies," the man who was holding the pistol tilted his head toward Athos and waved the weapon in their direction._

 _They were armed it seemed. More than one had pistols and they were in no mood to compromise._

 _Aramis watched as Athos, who had been still, slowly took off his hat and tossed it toward them. They watched as it landed on the dry ground before them; the feather in the leather band quivered, shining black-blue in the bright sunlight._

 _His message was clear:_ Stand down and take care of that _ **.**_

 _It was confirmed when he looked at them passively and said, "I'll want that back."_

" _You'll have it," Porthos said, firm and true._

 _Athos tilted his head at them, the action making his captor thrust the pistol up into his jaw once more._

 _Aramis drew in his breath as Athos closed his eyes momentarily; gathering himself._

" _You have two days," the man behind Athos shouted._

 _Porthos looked at Aramis, aghast._

" _Now, wait a minute," he growled._

" _I said two days! Bring us Crevier's pardon, signed by the King, and you get this one back. One minute late and we string him up from the walls. We'll let you watch."_

 _There was a heavy silence, and then Porthos pushed Crevier reluctantly toward the prisoners, relinquishing him into the "care" of a band of convicts instead of the prison guards._

 _The group of six men crowded around Crevier and started to pull him inside, taking Athos with them._

" _We'll see you in two days, Brother," Aramis called out, his unspoken message clear:_

 _ **Don't provoke them.**_

" _I will hold you to that," Athos called back, before he disappeared:_

 _ **I cannot promise you.**_

 _Aramis heard Athos's own unspoken message and sighed. Athos would deal with this in his own way._

 _The door was slammed behind them, leaving Aramis and Porthos standing in the yard, alone._

 _What should have been a simple escort duty had turned into a very complicated, deadly game._

oOo

" _They've taken over that wing," the flustered deputy Governor said, confronted by two very angry Musketeers. "It's cut off from the rest of the building anyway - it's just used for storage."_

" _So, no beds, no fires?" Aramis asked._

" _No."_

" _Food? Water? Porthos demanded._

" _I suspect the prisoners have been hoarding supplies," the deputy Governor replied weakly, no doubt wishing the Governor himself was here, instead of sick in his bed. "This was planned. They disarmed the guard and locked the internal gate that leads to that wing."_

" _Well, you make sure they get both food and water now," Porthos snarled. "There's a King's Musketeer among 'em."_

 _Porthos leaned in threateningly toward the man, and finally, he nodded._

" _I will do my best," he replied, not making eye contact._

 _Somehow, Porthos did not think that would be good enough._

 _oOo_

 _As a King's Musketeer, Athos knew he was a valuable commodity, but he soon realised something else was going on here._

 _He was expendable, if one particular inmate was anything to go by. Unfortunately, he seemed to hold sway with the others._

 _The room they now stood in was dark; the vaulted ceiling low. Brick supports straddled the four walls, creating four separate spaces. There was little furniture; the bulk having been pushed into the adjoining room, consisting of old cupboards and shelves; nothing they could use. There was a small square window built high in each quartered section of the room. Athos imagined that if the sun ever cast light in here, its shafts would fall on the centre of the room in turn as the day wore on. It would be the perfect place for a desk. However, the only pieces of furniture were an old table and two chairs, quickly pulled around and occupied by the obvious leader of the group and his second._

 _Athos was pushed forward, where he squared his shoulders and slowly removed his gloves, tucking them into his belt. He had nothing to say. He merely cast his eyes over the six men in the room, getting their measure. The leader nodded to two of the men, who came forward, one with a rope held loosely in his hands._

" _Nice jacket," he said, walking around Athos. He had been thoroughly searched and his jacket was open, his scarf discarded and his shirt pulled out._

 _ **Don't provoke them.**_

 _Aramis's parting words still rang in his head._

 _When the man had completed a full circle, leaving a distasteful aroma in his wake, he stood inches away and leaned in, reaching for the lapel._

 _Athos's hand shot out and he grabbed the man's wrist, twisting and sending the man slowly, agonisingly to his knees._

 _As his other hand curled into a fist and he pulled it back, a pistol was put to his temple. Reluctantly, let go and dropped his hand, releasing the man; though he still held the other curled tightly, the knuckles now white._

" _Take it off," the man who still held the pistol hissed._

 _Athos turned his head slowly and glared at the man._

" _Take. It. Off."_

 _Athos could do nothing but comply._

 _One of the man greedily grabbed the jacket, shoving his arms in the sleeves and grinning. Holding out his hands, he turned in a slow circle, showing Athos his prize._

 _The two men then walked towards him, one of them snapping the rope._

 _As they approached, Athos straightened and held out his hands. He wanted no trouble. He remembered Aramis's words:_

 _ **Don't provoke them.**_

 _He would have words with Aramis about that at a later date._

 _The two men looked at each other and grinned._

 _One wrapped the rope tightly around his wrists. As he was doing it, the other went behind him. Suddenly, another rope was looped over his neck, the end slung over a beam above him._

 _The two moved in front of him once more. Athos met their glare, before one leaned over and punched him. The air left his lungs and he doubled over, the rope tightening around his throat._

" _Welcome to Hell, Musketeer," one of them sneered, bending forward, his face close to Athos, who was gasping for air; his eyes watering._

" _Be still now, wouldn't want you to peak too soon."_

 _With that, the room filled with laughter and the man grabbed the rope and pulled, before tying it around an iron loop in a nearby brick pillar. Athos was forced to stand straight, despite the pain from the punch to his gut. He slowly raised his bound hands and wiped his eyes, blurred from the sudden choking._

 _When he opened his eyes, the men were moving away, to stand and sit in various parts of the room. There had obviously been an unseen command for them to do so. He was left, ignored, in the centre of the room, strung up by the rope around his neck, his hands tied in front of him._

 _Athos's eyes flicked around the six men. Within minutes of entering the room, he had identified the ring leader, the man he had heard one of them call Gilloux, even though he had yet to speak. The man with the pistol quietly deferred to him, by means of looks and hand signals. He had also identified the weak link; a young man whose demeanour and body language screamed reluctance._

 _Crevier had been put in the adjoining room. Gilloux pushed off the wall and walked from the room. Athos heard the door to the adjoining room open and close. Whatever was going on in there, the others were not privy to._

 _He took a deep breath. He would need all his concentration if he was to remain upright. He planted his feet squarely and closed his eyes._

 _He needed to stay alert but already, he knew he would not last for two days like this._

 _oOo_

" _What the Hell happened?!" Treville demanded when Aramis and Porthos reluctantly returned to the Garrison, without Athos._

" _They knew we were coming," Aramis replied, pacing Treville's office angrily._

 _Treville watched and waited until Aramis stopped and ran his hand through his hair._

" _How did they know Crevier was being delivered today, and to that door?" he said, looking from his Captain to Porthos._

 _Treville stood up and reached for his sword belt._

" _Wait for my orders. I am going to the Palace."_

" _To see the King?"Porthos asked._

" _To see The Cardinal," Treville growled."This smacks of his doing."_

 _He left the door open as he stalked angrily outside and took his stairs at an alarming rate._

 _oOo_

 _ **Back at The Chatelet:**_

 _The deputy Governor had been right. The men had hoarded food, and now they were sat around, laughing but eating sparingly. What they had, had to last until the deadline, unless they were given more by the prison guards._

 _Lussier sat opposite Athos, his back to the wall, watching the Musketeer._

 _Several hours had passed._

 _How the man stood so still for so long, he did not know. However, the consequences of collapsing were dire, and obviously an incentive._

 _The Musketeer's eyes were closed and he stood perfectly still, breathing slowly. Lussier began to watch the men, knowing which ones to target. This was not what they had signed up for when Gilloux initially proposed taking over the wing. An assault on the Musketeer would have grave consequences, and they had already assaulted him by imprisoning him and subjecting him to the ropes that now tied him._

 _All they had wanted was for Crevier to be recognised for what he had done for France. He had been arrested across the border and had already spent time in a Spanish jail as a French spy, until being arrested on French soil after his escape. Treated then as a Spanish spy by suspicious frenchmen, he had been handed over to the King's guard for trial and incarceration in the Chatelet. Gilloux and his men had taken over the little-used wing of the Chatelet to gain the King's attention. However, they had not bargained on Gilloux taking charge so brutally._

 _Lussier whispered in the ears of those who would be open to his warnings._

 _Even though his eyes were closed, Athos was listening._

 _One of the men was uneasy and said so. It gave Athos hope, although nothing happened._

 _Time ticked by._

 _Gilloux returned, breathing heavily, and threw himself in one of the two chairs._

 _Athos cracked open an eye. He could see Gilloux in his peripheral vision. He had wrapped Athos's blue cloak around himself._

 _He saw Athos watching him then and leaned forward._

" _Not so feisty now, are you Musketeer?" he sneered, looking around, expecting his men to join in. When two of them did, it emboldened him and he swaggered to his feet._

 _Standing behind Athos, he started to kick at his ankles, in an attempt to make him lose his footing._

 _As Lussier watched, he grew fearful. Looking at the men he had spoken quietly to, they made eye contact. Finally, one of the men spoke up. Lussier was no longer alone in his grievances against Gilloux._

" _He has had enough, Gilloux," Albert Musson, a man equal to Gilloux's physique said clearly. "Cut him down. He serves no purpose half dead."_

 _Gilloux looked up slowly, seeing three pairs of eyes staring at him. Half the men were now questioning him. He needed to be careful, he still had to get the information out of Crevier, but so far, he had been silent, despite the beatings Gilloux had given him in the next room. The man was obviously hardened by his previous bouts of captivity and it was proving difficult to make him talk. Gilloux was losing patience._

 _Gilloux walked slowly around Athos, approaching from behind. He reached out and shoved him in the back, bringing Athos suddenly back to himself, gasping for air as the rope tightened around his throat._

 _Lussier shot to his feet, along with two others and surrounded Athos, steadying him; one drawing a makeshift knife. Lussier walked around to Athos's back, his eyes never leaving Gilloux, as he reached up and cut through the rope, confident that the others who had stood by him had his back._

 _Gilloux stared back with empty eyes._

 _As the rope was cut, Athos sagged, and one of the men grabbed him. Gilloux also grabbed him and pushed them all toward an alchove in the corner, where Athos was pushed down by Gilloux, and eased down by Lussier, who reached for the rope around his wrists._

" _Don't," Gilloux growled, raising his pistol. Lussier backed away._

 _Lussier did however, bring a waterskin across a little later and helped Athos to drink._

" _Slow, take it slow," he said quietly as Athos gulped the cold liquid._

 _Athos looked into Lussier's eyes and tilted his head in thanks._

" _Back off," Gilloux said, when Lussier had finished. He waved the pistol at his own men, the group clearly now divided, and they moved to stand in front of Lussier, who was forced to retreat. He had won one battle. That was enough for now._

 _Gilloux then walked away, back into the other room, where he slammed the door. The men had no idea that he was trying to coerce Crevier into divulging his intelligence. No sound came from beyond the door and no-one challenged him._

 _Later_ :

" _The King will not sign a pardon in two days," Athos said quietly, as Lussier held the waterskin to his lips once ore. "I believe Gilloux knows that. You are being misled."_

 _Lussier looked around, the men around them were all asleep. Gilloux himself was in the other room with Crevier._

" _Why would he do that?" Lussier whispered._

" _There is only one reason. Crevier has something he wants. No doubt intelligence, which is valuable. Whoever Gilloux is working for wants it. I do not expect Crevier will survive; although I seem to have disrupted Guilloux's plans for the moment."_

 _Before Lussier could ask any more questions, there was a noise behind him._

 _Gilloux pushed him aside and grabbed Athos by the shirt. Before Lussier could recover, he pulled Athos forward and then slammed his head against the wall._

 _As the pain exploded in his skull, Athos had the fleeting thought that he may not get out of this._

 _oOo_

 _At the very moment Athos was meeting oblivion, Treville was storming unannounced into Richelieu's quarters._

 _The Cardinal was sitting behind his large desk, the only piece of furniture in the equally large room. He did not look up._

" _Come in, Treville, he said smoothly, whilst he continued to scratch his pen across the parchment before him._

" _There has been a prison break at the Chatelet," Treville started his diatribe before he had reached Richelie's desk._

" _So I hear. You had no need to come here personally to inform me."_

" _And did you also hear that one of my Musketeers has been taken hostage, in exchange for Crevier's pardon?"_

" _Well, of course, that is not going to happen," Richelieu drawled. "It is a simple matter to starve the prisoners out!"_

" _Did you hear what I said?" Treville responded. "I am not willing to sacrifice one of my best men for a traitor."_

" _Oh, he is a little more than that," Richelieu replied, before sighing and sitting back in his chair._

 _Treville frowned;_

" _What is he to you?" he ground out._

 _Richelieu did not respond; he studied Treville, before looking away in exasperation._

" _He is of use to me," he finally spat out. "I need him in that prison!"_

" _Why? What is he to you?" Treville repeated._

" _His endeavours have given him vital intelligence, useful to France," Richelieu said quietly._

" _What other information does he hold that leads you to this?" Treville asked._

" _That is MY business, Treville,"_

" _It is MY business when one of my men is at risk!" Treville countered, before frowning. "What secrets of yours does Crevier hold?" he added._

 _Watching Richelieu, he suddenly realised._

" _The ringleader is your man!" he said, incredulously._

 _Richelieu did not meet his eye. Nor did he deny it._

 _Treville took two paces forward and leaned on Richelieu's desk._

" _What did you promise him?" Treville demanded._

 _Richelieu waved his hand dismissively. "A mere promotion," he finally muttered._

" _He's a Red Guard?!"_

" _What did you think he was, a common ruffian?!" Richelieu laughed mirthlessly._

 _Treville thought there was little difference between the two._

" _Athos will recognise him as such," he replied._

 _Richelieu stared at him._

" _You think Gilloux will allow your man to survive? He knows it takes longer than two days for a pardon to be forthcoming! It is a mere tactic."_

" _Call your dog off! The lives of Athos and Crevier are precariously balanced," Treville said, his voice low with anger._

" _I will not be dictated to, Captain," Richelieu said dismissively._

" _Call him off," Treville growled again, "or Louis will hear of this."_

 _Richelieu stilled at the mention of the King's name. He knew when he had lost the advantage._

" _He is out of control," Treville hissed, "You have been betrayed. He wants the information for himself."_

" _Then he is either very brave or very stupid," Richelieu snarled._

" _A little of both, no doubt," Treville responded. Anyone who crossed Richelieu would have to be._

 _Richelieu paced. "Gilloux has overstepped his remit!"_

 _Treville suspected the Cardinal was more concerned with his lack of control than the mess he had created._

" _Call Gilloux off!" Treville said, his voice low with anger,"If Crevier's intelligence is lost, France will be the loser."_

 _Turning on his heel, Treville strode out of Richelieu's apartment._

" _If he lives, all that I have worked for will be lost," Richelieu said quietly, as he sat down heavily. "That cannot be allowed to happen."_

oOo

 _ **The Chatelet:**_

 _Gilloux pulled Athos, now unconscious, forward by his hair and prepared to slam his head once more into the wall._

 _He was suddenly grabbed from behind and swung away. Hands grabbed him and pinned him to the ground._

"Gilloux! _He's a Musketeer! Kill him and we're all dead!" Lussier shouted._

" _You think you're not already?!" Gilloux yelled. "An assault on a blue cloak is punishable by death! You've already overstepped that line by imprisoning him, you fools!"_

" _Wait," Lussier said, the Musketeer's words of caution ringing in his ears. "You do not seem to include yourself in that."_

 _Everything went quiet._

 _Lussier suddenly stood and ran to the other room. Throwing open the door, he saw Crevier, the man they all sought a pardon for, tied to a chair. He had been beaten._

 _Moving forward, he untied him. Crevier nodded, but said nothing._

 _Lussier gave him water, before turning and storming back into the main room._

 _Staring at Gilloux, he drew in a breath;_

" _Who the hell ARE you?"_

oOo

 _ **Later, at the Palace:**_

 _Treville emerged from his audience with the King and walked briskly toward Aramis, who was anxiously counting time in his head, and awaiting the outcome of Treville's entreaties to Louis._

" _What is happening?" Aramis asked, walking quickly to meet Treville half-way across the room._

" _Crevier is a known freedom fighter," Treville explained. "He has worked for years across our borders into Spain. He has intelligence and no doubt, after all these years, incriminating information on Richelieu himself."_

" _Richelieu told me in private that he has a Red Guard in the Chatelet. He is sure to extract the intelligence from Crevier. Or at least, he will try. Richelieu did not expect a stand off between us. I have spoken with the King and we await his instructions on storming the Chatelet."_

" _Let's just do it!" Aramis cried, grabbing hold of Treville's arm, before remembering himself._

" _We cannot," Treville replied firmly. "It is a delicate situation. This is Richelieu's game, and it had gone badly wrong. He does not want to lose face. It is for the King to dictate the outcome."_

" _That is Athos in there!" Aramis hissed his eyes blazing._

 _Treville had expected such a reaction from him, and pulled him aside._

" _I know that!" he said fiercely. "The King is to decide whether Crevier is expendable. Richelieu favours that, of course. I have spent the last hour countering his argument! There is more to this than he is saying, and he seeks a swift end to this._

" _Richelieu's man is out of control, but the Cardinal is threatening to order him to dispose of Crevier to remove his power. If it goes Richelieu's way, and Crevier is "quietly disposed of," as he puts it, the prisoners have no bargaining power. The man obviously has information on Richelieu, that is now in no doubt."_

" _That would suit Richelieu well," Aramis said, an uneasy feeling settling on him, "but the intelligence will die with Crevier."_

" _It is with the King now," Treville said, the same feeling settling on him; Louis was capricious, and he often sided with Richelieu. He had seen it time and time again._

 _If Gilloux was ordered to dispose of Crevier, Athos would become expendable too, a simple casualty of a failed prison break. It could be easily explained away. It would serve the Red Guard, Gilloux, despite his intentions, and it would serve Richelieu to see Treville lose one of his best men._

" _In the meantime, Gilloux holds sway," Aramis murmured, unhappily._

" _There is still time," Treville said, but they both knew, the deadline was near._

" _Will Gilloux stand down on Richelieu's orders? He wants Crevier's information as much as Richelieu, or else why this fiasco?"_

" _I don't know," Treville replied. "I have sent word to Porthos to mount a guard in the courtyard. If the deadline passes and they try to carry out their threat, our only option will be to attack."_

" _Athos could be killed by our own men!" Aramis said._

" _It's all we have," Treville replied, walking over to sit in one of the chairs and await the King's decision._

oOo

 _As the deadline drew closer, Porthos brought his men into the courtyard, to await word from the Palace, and to act should the prisoners attempt to fulfil their threat. He knew now that the King was not thinking on a pardon for Crevier, but on whether he was expendable, and if so, then a full-on assault on the Chatelet wing would ensue._

 _Porthos's mood was sour._

 _As the time ticked by, he paced among the men, glaring at anyone who tried to speak._

 _The sun was going down as the deadline finally came._

 _Porthos drew his sword, ready to repel anyone who tried to drag Athos to his death in front of them, as promised._

 _Suddenly, the door was thrown open and Porthos raised his hand for the Musketeers to attack._

 _However, the men who appeared did not have Athos with them. They were dragging Gilloux, the man who Porthos had last seen with his pistol pressed into Athos's jaw two days ago._

 _Gilloux was unconscious. The men straightened and raised their hands in surrender._

 _Porthos pushed past them, leaving them to the Musketeers at his back._

 _Inside the dark interior, he looked frantically around, before seeing Athos slumped in the alchove at the far side of the room._

 _Crevier emerged from the adjoining room then, battered but alive._

 _The prisoners were pushed back into the room, just as Aramis arrived with the order from the King, no longer needed. He was sweating from his furious ride from the Palace. The deadline had gone and he was terrified of what he would find._

 _He took in the scene quickly, moving beside Porthos, who backed away, giving him room._

 _Kneeling in front of Athos, he reached out and placed his hands on both side of his head, pulling it gently up from his chest. He shifted his hands to feel the back of his head, and sucked in his breath._

" _He has a large lump on the back of his head," he growled, not taking his eyes from Athos's pale face._

" _Aramis?" Porthos said softly._

" _Alive, barely," Aramis replied._

 _Porthos felt rage building in him and turned on the prisoners behind him._

" _Who did this?!" he roared, drawing his main gauche._

 _The prisoners backed away, despite being held by the Musketeers._

" _Gilloux did it. Banged his head against the wall. We stopped him doing it a second time. It would have killed him," Lussier spoke up. "We'd had enough, it wasn't supposed to go this way."_

" _How was it supposed to go?" Porthos yelled. No-one answered and his rage increased._

" _Where's 'is jacket?" he suddenly said, his anger channelling into the mundane, as he could do nothing about this. It suddenly seemed important to retrieve Athos's possessions._

 _One of the prisoners pointed to the corner, where the jacket was slung on the back of one of the chairs in the room. His cloak was on the floor. Lussier held up his scarf, damp from when he had wiped Athos's face after Gilloux had rendered him unconscious._

 _Porthos snatched it from him and pushed him back in line. Lussier stumbled back into the soldiers that now held them._

oOo

 _Porthos and Aramis commandeered a cart from the prison and took Athos and Crevier back to the Garrison. They also singled out Lussier and took him along. They needed explanations, and this man seemed willing to talk. He looked defeated._

" _Will he be alright?" Lussier asked Aramis as they set off._

 _But Aramis did not reply, merely shucking the reins and moving the team of horses forward._

 _They left Gilloux to the prison guards who were now spilling into the wing, liberated once more._

" _About time," Porthos growled, kicking out at one of them who got too close to the cart as it moved through the gates._

oOo

 _It was a turbulent few days before Athos regained consciousness._

 _There were moments when they thought he would not._

 _When he did, he was plagued with a vicious headache._

 _After Porthos helped Athos to drink the wine with one of Aramis's concoctions in it, Athos slept for five hours._

 **Present:**

Slowly waking, Athos was relieved to see a familiar room, albeit in the infirmary.

It took another hour for him to gather his wits to a degree where he could communicate.

"Why are you fussing so?" he murmured, later, his eyes closed.

The feel of the cool cloth on his forehead was welcomed though. He drew his knees up to ease the ache in his back.

"Allow me this, brother," Aramis's reply was heartfelt.

Athos sighed.

"Very well. It _is_ something I wished for."

"A cold cloth can be comforting," Aramis said.

Athos reached up and withdrew the cloth from his forehead.

"Not the damned cloth," he growled, opening his eyes and pinning Aramis with his gaze, before softening, "Although it is very welcome."

Aramis looked confused.

Athos closed his eyes once more and replaced the cloth, only to have it re-adjusted by Aramis.

"Your care," Athos said softly. "I looked forward to your care."

Aramis was glad in that moment that Athos was not looking at him.

oOo

Porthos had had to be stopped from storming The Chatelet and tearing Gilloux limb from limb after hearing Lussier's account.

He found himself in Athos's room instead.

Athos was laid on his side, his eyes closed, his fingers splayed across his forehead; supporting his still-painful head.

"Porthos," Athos murmured, without opening his eyes.

"How'd you know it was me?" Porthos grunted.

Athos smiled, his eyes still closed. "Lucky guess," he murmured.

"Lussier told us what Gilloux did, makin' you stand like that, for all those hours. Sorry I wasn't there."

Athos opened one eye cautiously and peered at his friend.

"You were there," he said softly.

"What?" Porthos frowned, thinking Athos delerious.

"It helped, imagining your particular brand of revenge on Guilloux,"Athos smirked. "You _were_ there."

"You're a mad bastard, Athos," Porthos huffed.

"It helps sometimes," Athos's voice trailed off, exhausted from their exchange. Closing his eyes, he was almost asleep.

When he felt a large hand rest gently on his face, he smiled and quietly drifted off.

Porthos watched his sleeping friend for a few moments, before gently removing his hand.

"Don't ever change, Ath," he whispered.

oOo

He managed to turn his head at the sound of the door opening, and saw Treville enter, carrying a steaming bowl of broth.

"No talking," Treville said quietly, sitting down on the chair, "not until you have finished this. Aramis's orders."

Athos eyed the bowl, uncertain of the outcome if he did partake. He had not been given much in terms of food of late, nor had he experienced this treatment from his Captain before. He found himself somewhat embarrassed at his helplessness.

More so when Porthos joined them.

"No discussion," Treville said, raising the spoon.

It was the aroma that persuaded Athos to quietly accept the offering.

He did indeed, finish half of the bowl before Treville set it down and turned back to him.

"I am sorry, Athos," Treville sighed. "This should have been resolved sooner."

"The prisoner Crevier came first," Athos said.

"No, he did not," Treville said firmly.

Athos watched him. Saw him deflate and look away. He had not seen that in his Captain before.

"He did not," Treville repeated, "But the situation demanded it."

"I understand," Athos said quietly.

Treville looked at him, before huffing and bringing the spoon to him once more.

"You were right about Gilloux, Richelieu admitted it."

"As a plan, and given their resources, it was reasonably executed," Athos considered.

Treville barked out a laugh.

"Finish this," he growled. "That's an order."

"How did you figure Gilloux out?"

"I listened and watched. It soon became apparent to me that Gilloux wasn't really one of them. He was controlling though, and they followed him."

"You were lucky young Lussier was there," Aramis interjected. "He said you warned him. After that, he started picking up on Gilloux himself. Gradually he turned enough of them onto his side."

"What of Crevier? Athos asked Treville.

"Richelieu has relinquished him. We have him in a safe place. He'll probably start working for us, on the northern coast.

"Richelieu thinks he's committed his knowledge to paper, which has been safely deposited elsewhere."

"So he is safe from the Cardinal," Athos said.

"He will be, if he actually does it," Treville huffed.

Athos smiled, "He's hedging his bets."

"At the moment. He'll come round."

"And the King?"

"He doesn't know the half of it, only what Richelieu was telling him. But he's dealt with Gilloux."

"And what of Lussier?" Athos asked softly.

"Ah, now that's a different story. He was only in there for theft. I spoke to the King and Louis has pardoned him. In front of the Cardinal too. You should have seen his face."

"The King is not a fool."

"But he needs Richelieu. And therein lies his power," Treville said, before standing.

"Quite."

"Get some rest, Athos." Treville said. "That's an order," he added, although he smiled at Athos's expression, before he left.

"Everyone out now," Aramis eventually said. "Our friend does need his rest."

"There's only the two of us 'ere," Porthos complained.

"And now we are both leaving."

"Try not to get into any more trouble, brother."

"I will try not to," Athos smiled.

Aramis returned the smile, before turning to Porthos. "Drink?" Aramis said, throwing his arm around the big man's shoulder.

"Off duty now, so why not?" Porthos replied, winking at Athos.

"Out!" Athos growled.

"We'd invite you, Athos, but you're not a well man," Aramis grinned.

"Out!" he roared, before grimacing at the resultant spike of pain in his head.

Porthos sucked in his breath.

"Touchy," he said, shaking his head.

"That's the Athos we know and love," Aramis added, beaming.

They both beat a hasty retreat, as a cup flew past them and hit the wall.

The colourful curses that followed them would have make a Parisian dock-worker blush.

"He'll forgive us," Aramis said confidently as they made their way through the archway. "Though it may take a while!"

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	40. The Laundress

**A/N** : So we reach the fortieth story! Who knew? Many thanks for continuing to read and review this little indulgences, and to those I cannot thank personally. May I take this opportunity to thank those who have offered me prompts. I am grateful, even though I cannot promise that the muse and the plot bunny will work together to deliver. If I can write something, I will; otherwise my apologies if I cannot find the way forward with a particular prompt. Inspiration may still strike, you never know.

So, onward.

oOo

 **40\. THE LAUNDRESS**

 **All of them:**

It takes more than a regiment of Musketeers to run the Garrison. Here, we meet the indomitable Laundress. Without her and her little team, the Infirmary would grind to a halt.

oOo

Just as Serge and his kitchen was integral to the smooth running of the Garrison, so too was the Laundry.

In the early days, Jean Treville had used the services of a city laundry several winding streets away, but it had proved far from ideal.

After a bout of sickness that had seen half the his newly commissioned men confined to the Infirmary, they had soon been overwhelmed with the need for sheets, pillows and blankets; not to mention cloths and towels. It was soon apparent that the small building set aside would not suffice. Men could not be spared for fetching and carrying from the city laundry and that particular facility was not always able to deliver when items were needed and so work began on extending their own white washed building, which stood at the rear of the stables.

Treville had sought out Madame Marthe Cercy on a recommendation from Serge after he had news that she had recently been made a widow. Serge had been a life-long friend of her late husband, Matty. They had fought side by side in various campaigns for years. He feared now for her well-being and had made overtures to the Captain on her behalf.

Treville had struck out to her home a few days later and introduced himself. He found her low and without purpose and told her of his dream for the laundry. She had smiled for the first time in months at the thought that a laundry would be this man's dream, but he looked so earnest, describing how he wanted the best for his new regiment of King's Musketeers. She had come to the Garrison a week later, looked around the small building they were using, clucked her tongue and stayed until sundown, making plans.

She had gone with the Captain to the Palace to petition the King for funding for their new project; her eyes wide, her hands shaking as Treville walked by her side. The King, full of his own plans for his Musketeers, clapped his hands in glee at the idea of the facility, exclaiming that his Musketeers would be the best groomed soldiers in France. Madame had stopped Treville outside the Palace and it was then that he told her of their idea for blue wool cloaks for every Musketeer, with many buttons. He had looked so hopefully at her, she had actually laughed, before linking arms with him and walking back to the Garrison on that fine afternoon. He accepted every one of her terms, the main one being her request to work with the seamstress to ensure the correct wool was used that would wash well. They had shaken hands on it. It was going to be the best laundry in Paris.

Soon, the women Madame hired could wash, boil, steep and starch. They could also store linens in their own kingdom, where soldiers did not dare cross their threshold, in fear of sharp tongues or fierce teasing from the widows and spinsters alike who knew how to deal with the likes of them. Those same women though, were fiercely protective of the Musketeers as a whole and proud to serve the King's own regiment.

The laundry soon became an integral part of the Garrison.

As an initiation into the new regiment, each new recruit would to be sent to the laundry for very specific items. The senior soldiers waiting for the women's reactions soon heard their raucous laughter and then, the red-faced recruit would return, arms full of soiled linens with a pillow case or set of small-clothes rammed haphazardly on his head, much to the amusement of the regiment, as word quickly spread and they gathered in the yard to watch the spectacle.

Treville often raised an eyebrow from his balcony at the shenanigans, but never interceded or stopped the practise. He well remembered his own initiation many years since when he had been sent to milk a cow, only to be confronted by a very large, indignant bull. Of course, the door had been quickly locked behind him and to this day, he put his diplomacy skills down to that experience. Or, perhaps, his lack of such skills, as he had had to resort to swiftly climbing into the eaves to avoid the bull's angry advances.

The embarrassment of being wrapped in linens with certain items rammed on your head when your arms were full, thus rendering you half blind and stumbling, was an improvement on his own experience and it was amusing, rather than downright dangerous.

Madame Crecy had turned a blind eye to such merriment, enjoying the fun as sometimes, times were hard in the Garrison and laughter was in short supply. They all lived in dangerous times. She had outlived her husband, but also three of her sons, who had died for France. One son remained, but his brains were addled. He would sometimes help with lifting and carrying around the laundry.

Madame's small team of laundresses included her cousin Clemmy. The women were all like herself; quiet, discreet and efficient. Two of them had even found love within the Garrison walls, much to her delight, as she had herself had a long and happy marriage before her Matty was taken from her.

The laundresses were often the only women on the site, as it was part of the soldiers duties to clean their own possessions; their tack, their weapons, the stables. Cleaning women were called in occasionally, but the laundry was open every day. The women came in early and worked long hours. Often they were only seen hanging out their washing at the back of the stables, lines strung across from wall to wall, or tree to tree, well away from the main buildings.

But their other domain was the infirmary.

It was inevitable that they would be called to a bedside from time to time. No amount of hard work in their hot, damp laundry ever prepared them for what they saw in the infirmary.

They could not help getting involved when seeing the men care for each other; brothers-in-arms but also _true_ brothers it seemed; dedicated to each other to the end. At such times, the men _were_ allowed in the laundry, a welcome respite as they silently handed over soiled sheets and received clean ones.

The women did not linger in the infirmary and often their work was done by the time the surgeon's door was opened and the patient was brought to his newly-prepared bed.

They changed beds and tucked in sheets and picked up pillows, thrown on the floor in a moment of crisis or across the room in frustration. Their hands were sometimes caught as they fluffed pillows, looking into eyes, bright with fever or pain. Then, they offered their own words of comfort.

After an experience of finding a man wrapped around his meagre pillow, his only comfort, Madame Crecy (for only Treville was allowed to call her Marthe), had a batch of longer pillows made, that would prop a body up, stop a body rolling off his side, or just offer the soft comfort of wrapping arms tightly around it.

She often chivvied along those men who were exhausted from sitting next to a comrade; on rare occasions taking a turn herself, sewing, mending, or repairing while the carer went to eat or to get a breath of fresh air. On occasion, hoping when leaving for the night that the patient would still be alive in the morning. It was a wish that was not always granted.

Of all the Musketeers stationed in the Garrison, it was The Inseparables that she favoured, for they reminded her of her own boys.

She always provided a special pillow for each of them when they found themselves within the walls of the infirmary.

Aramis's pillow was scented with lavender;

d'Artagnan's with camomile.

For Porthos, she chose sandalwood.

Athos's pillow was not scented, as she had seen long ago that he would not countenance such frippery. For him, she brought a pillow encased in one of a few of her fine linen pillow cases; plain but of excellent quality, reserved for the Captain and his Lieutenant. She had worked for the nobility in the past and these items were a parting gift from a grateful employer. She had not used them, had no need of them in her humble home, but when she came to the Garrison and met the Captain and The Inseparables, she found an ideal use for them, and locked them away in her cupboard in the laundry until they were needed.

Porthos had the fine muscles and ready smile of her middle son, who had fallen at La Rochelle.

Aramis, with his love of life and sense of fun, brought to mind her eldest; the light of her life.

Athos stood alone. She had never met his like. She believed he was high-borne, but he was aloof and carried such pain in his eyes.

She understood pain.

She and Athos had eyed each other warily when they first met. Further contact with him came when he had cause to occupy a room in the infirmary. The King himself had paid a visit to his new regiment in the early days. She had been shocked as she saw the mayhem that ensued as two would-be assassins attempted to kill him. If not for Athos, they would have succeeded, although he took a musket ball in the shoulder as a consequence.* As he recuperated, she had soon understood he valued his privacy and liked the door to the room to be closed. She always ensured she knocked before she entered.

And d'Artagnan; so like her youngest that she had pulled away when he had reached for her hand; only for her to turn back to him. She should have gone home, but she stayed with him, leaving before first light.

Those boys always seemed to find trouble and the grey hairs that now framed her face were a testament of that, although she kept it to herself, until a look between her and Serge made it plain as to where her sentiments lay.

Serge, of all people, understood.

oOo

Her saddest task of all was to pull out the bolt of cream material and work a shroud.

These were always constructed individually; the last act the laundry gave to the men they served.

Measurements were taken and fine stitches were threaded into the thick material. It was then steamed and pressed, folded with care and delivered to the Captain's office on the morning of internment. Inside each shroud, the women always sewed a small sprig of rosemary and if there was time, they embroidered the initials of the recipient. Tears would often fall as the women did their work. Madame gently scolded them, keeping her own tears to herself until she was back in her own home, where she let them fall; feeling each death in her heart.

oOo

On high days and holidays, she would take a nip of cognac with the Captain and always at Christmas, she left him a fine linen handkerchief, worked with her own fingers. Neatly sewn and folded into a square, she placed it just-so on the corner of his desk, out of the way, unobtrusive, much like herself. It always brought a smile to his face when he caught sight of it.

General mending was a part of their duties. Items brought to the laundry often needed a stitch or two. She was not averse to sticking pins into the men she had a grievance with, as she was mending their clothes; compensation for a slight or one step too far in their sass. Aramis had been on the sharp end a few times when, as he held court with the other women, his charm failed to impress her, or she felt he needed to settle down and stand still. She had never stuck d'Artagnan though, his youth excusing him in her eyes. Her youngest had been just as full of vigour and vim as that one. The morning she had packed her boy off to war with his eldest brother had been the last she had seen him. Her eldest had returned sick and distraught at his loss, having promised his mother he would look after him. She had taken her saddened eldest in her arms and hushed him, and then she had buried him two weeks later, from sickness of heart and body that he did not fight.

She had mended Athos's scarf more times than she cared to remember; although it was not _he_ that sought her out for the task, but one of the others, who knew what that scrap of material meant to their friend. The tilt of his head in thanks when he next saw her was enough for her. Athos did not know how it happened, but it became apparent that the four Musketeers she held in high regard and went a little further for, included him.

The Musketeers were her family now, though they did not know it. She kept in the background, there when needed.

Sometimes, she had shared thoughts and counsel with them. Her advice was always sound, and her womanly presence a comfort.

Athos spoke to her in the infirmary one late evening when lost in a fever. She had brought clean wet cloths for Aramis, who was sitting vigil. Urging Aramis to take a break, she had sat down and was preparing a cloth when she looked up and found those pain-filled eyes staring at her.

He had said one word, " _Maman?_ " before losing focus, but she had reached out instinctively to hold his hand and he had soon fallen asleep.

Aramis had been relieved to see Athos sleeping when he returned, as his brother was worn out. He had kissed her soundly on the cheek, to which her response was to bustle away from him, but on leaving the infirmary, she had had to sit down briefly on the bench the four of them usually occupied to wipe her eyes with her apron.

Athos did not remember their encounter and she never spoke of it. Although, from that day, he was one of her favoured. He always acknowledged her, tilting his head in that quiet way he had, and the sight of him riding through the archway, now so strong and well, did her heart good. It did her heart good to see all those struck down well again.

Clemmy was fond of d'Artagnan and often slipped him an apple if he was in the infirmary. It was hard for Madame to stay too long with d'Artagnan as he was the image of her youngest, with his dark hair and brown eyes. She was happy to allow Clemmy to tend to his needs.

Porthos always got extra pillows. He did not like to lie too flat, wanting to see what was going on around him, but be comfortable at the same time. As soon as she came in, if he was able, he would give her his biggest smile and his laughter always warmed her. If he was brought low, it was a very bad day for her and she busied herself in the laundry until word came that he was on the mend.

Other roles for the women were filling cupboards with clean bandages; Madame Crecy always deferred to Aramis as to where he wanted them stored. Often such supplies were needed quickly and she did not interfere. She had a soft spot for Aramis who always jumped to his feet when she entered the infirmary and relieved her of whatever she was carrying. She had helped him on many occasions with wet sheets for those who needed cooling, stripping beds and remaking them, holding limbs as he re-bandaged. He would always help her remove used sheets, carrying the basket to the laundry, even though he was loathe to leave his sick charge, even for a moment.

Madame Crecy had heard many secrets spoken in the infirmary. She had seen many things. She had helped doctors and those soldiers who bore the burden of care. Even though she had her favourites, all these men were her family. The work was hard but it was rewarding. If she and her women could help the Captain run the Garrison well, that was fine with them.

She had said goodbye to men at the beginning of their lives, with years ahead of them. She was dedicated to the Captain and his regiment and, in particular, to four young men, who held a special place in her battered heart, alongside her own lost boys, who would be forever young.

Turning the key in the door of the laundry, she looked across to the infirmary, empty now, and in darkness.

"You just stay like that awhile, building, if you please," she whispered.

Pulling her shawl over her head she walked briskly through the archway and made her way home.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

* Relates to Chapter 16: "Loyalty Above All."


	41. The Simple Act of Breathing: d'Artagnan

For Chapters 41-44, I have written four one-off chapters for each of our boys, with the theme of "Breathing." I'll publish them every couple of days, in the following order:

1\. d'Artagnan

2\. Porthos

3\. Athos

4\. Aramis

I hope you enjoy reading them!

oOo

 **41\. THE SIMPLE ACT OF BREATHING**

 **d'Artagnan** (Series 1) **:**

d'Artagnan was sweating profusely; his hair clinging to his damp forehead.

"If you hold your breath, it will be considerably more painful."

He opened his eyes from his face-down position on the table and turned his head toward the familiar, steady voice.

Athos stood propped in the doorway, arms folded, looking across at him.

"Hold still, mon ami," Aramis said quietly at his side, as he drew the thread up after placing the third stitch of several into a deep slash in the back of d'Artagnan's thigh.

d'Artagnan was trying to hold still, but it was so _damned_ painful.

Everything had narrowed to the searing pain emanating from his thigh; his first serious injury since finding himself in the company of these three hardened soldiers.

How was he going to get through this without losing his pride, and his dignity?

He felt a hand drop onto his ankle. Porthos squeezed gently; offering his own sympathetic response.

It was a momentary reprieve before the needle pushed through his skin once more and he bit down hard into his lip. It felt like one of those needles Aramis used to darn his socks!

" _Easy … for you to say….Athos_ ," he eventually ground out.

d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut, his hands tightening on each side of the table; slick forehead pressed into the wood. He stopped himself banging his head on the table when he heard Athos sigh and shift position. He turned his head and opened his eyes to peer across at his mentor once more. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked hard at the resultant sting.

Athos had dipped his head and was staring at the floor. Feeling d'Artagnan's eyes on him, he raised his eyebrows and looked up, though he kept his head down. The resulting glare was effective and d'Artagnan closed his eyes once more; his shoulders screaming with tension.

"It _is_ true, d'Artagnan," Aramis leaned in and spoke in a stage whisper; side glancing Athos.

"Our fearless leader has mastered the art of controlling his breathing. As such, he can withstand an inordinate amount of pain."

They all heard Athos huff his response; Porthos emitted a low rumble of laughter.

d'Artagnan finally let his breath go.

But he did not appear to breathe in again.

After a moment, Athos released his own breath, in pure exasperation.

"Just breathe, dammit," he growled, "it's not difficult!"

He pushed off the door frame and strode across to the window, his boots echoing on the flagstones.

Aramis sucked in his own breath and pushed the needle once more through the ragged skin of d'Artagnan's thigh.

d'Artagnan moaned.

Aramis gently shushed him.

"There, there," Porthos grunted, patting at his ankle.

Athos held his peace, his back to the room now, staring out of the window.

d'Artagnan looked across at the now-vacant doorway, before twisting his head, finding Athos by the window and addressing his back;

" _Athos?"_

Athos continued to stare out of the window.

" _Athos!"_

Athos slowly turned his head and looked over his shoulder at him, his eyebrow raised. He took in the boy's white knuckles as he clung to the table, every muscle in his arms bulging with tension.

" _Will you show me_?" d'Artagnan asked, eyes swimming with unshed tears.

Athos considered him.

"As you wish," he replied; his tone softer now.

He strode back toward d'Artagnan, pulling a chair to the head of the table.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a knowing look and a smile.

Sitting down and at eye level with d'Artagnan now, Athos reached out and put his hand gently on the young man's tight shoulder.

" _Close your eyes."_

" _Breathe in_ _through your nose_..." he said softly. " _Hold_..." he directed. " _And..._ _Release_ … _all the way out_ , _through your mouth_. _Loosen your limbs as you do so."_

" _Repeat, d'Artagnan,_ " Athos said, keeping his hand on his shoulder.

d'Artagnan did as he was bid and after a few minutes, Athos felt the rigid shoulders begin to relax, and watched as his fingers began to lose their tight grip on the table.

"How hard is that," Athos murmured dispassionately, to no-one in particular.

He looked at Aramis, poised with the needle held aloft, and then down at d'Artagnan.

Sighing, he waved his hand at both of them.

" _Continue,"_ he instructed, before moving purposefully back toward the window.

"Thank you, Athos," d'Artagnan whispered; calmer now.

Athos stopped mid-stride and half turned back.

"You are welcome, d'Artagnan," he replied, the hint of a smile on his lips.

oOo

Thanks for reading! _"The Simple Act of Breathing – Porthos"_ will be posted soon.

We will learn how Athos acquired his breathing skills in Chapter 43.


	42. The Simple Act of Breathing: Porthos

**42\. THE SIMPLE ACT OF BREATHING (2)**

 **Porthos:**

" _H_ _ELL'S BELLS AND BUCKETS OF BLOOD!_ " Porthos roared; his voice echoing off the walls.

Gasping, his eyes sprang open and he flailed his arms, finding his balance.

He was abed, he realised; in the Infirmary by the look of it.

He remembered then; every detail.

His chest was heaving in his attempt to get his breath back and he swiped a hand over his eyes as he pulled in great gasps of air.

Slowly, awareness came back to him

" _Nightmare_ ," he finally growled, looking around.

Three other beds were occupied. Two of the men who occupied them were watching him.

"Sorry," Porthos muttered. "Bad dream."

"You don't say," Marcel Merchand sighed, heaving himself over and going back to sleep.

Porthos looked at the other man, who smiled weakly at him, apparently no offence taken at being woken so suddenly. Perhaps he had nightmares of his own.

"Sorry," Porthos said again, allowing his head to fall heavily back onto his pillow.

He stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.

His heart was hammering in his chest, fit to burst.

He had just watched Aramis being dismembered by a troop of Spanish soldiers; a dream and a sight he never wanted to experience again, although it still played in his mind as such dreams were wont to do. Nightmares were an unforgiving experience.

He suddenly felt uneasy, his breath stuttering.

 _Was it a dream?_

He felt the uncomfortable warmth of a fever, the damp feel of perspiration pooling in the hollow of his throat and the small of his back.

Where _was_ Aramis? he suddenly thought, taking in a ragged breath to shout; even though it would disturb his fellow patients once more. He had a vague recollection of Athos and d'Artagnan in his dream too, but it was Aramis's fate he had seen first and it was that which had violently awoken him.

Before he could utter a cry, the door softly opened.

There, framed in the doorway, was Aramis, arms full of linen; hair dishevelled.

Porthos stared at him, making sure he was real, before letting out a long sigh of relief.

"It _is_ you," he said quietly.

Aramis crept silently forward, aware of the other three patients.

"Of course it is! Who else is this handsome at this time of night?" Aramis said, his voice affecting mock conceit; though Porthos knew he probably meant it.

At the moment though, he could forgive the man his vanity.

Right now, he could forgive all three of his brothers anything, realising nothing had changed. He was no longer caught in nocturnal dread. They were all alive.

Aramis gently pulled Porthos forward and slipped another pillow behind him.

"Madame Crecy's compliments," he whispered. "For when you woke."

The familiar scent of sandalwood drifted about them.

"That's a comfort," Porthos said, breathing in the earthy aroma she reserved just for his pillow.

"Will you thank 'er for me?"

"She'll probably be by tomorrow," Aramis replied quietly, putting the rest of the linen aside and sitting down.

"I just had a nightmare," Porthos muttered, wanting to share. "Took my breath away."

"Want to talk about it?" Aramis asked, sitting back and putting his feet on the bed.

Porthos pressed his lips together, the corners of his mouth turning down, before his eyes slid to Aramis's face. He shook his head, not wishing to dredge up the brutal vision any further than it was.

Eventually though, as Aramis waited patiently, Porthos took a long, ragged breath;

"Thought you were dead," he responded glumly.

Aramis watched him, a frown now evident on his brow. He was no stranger to nightmares himself.

They sat in silence for a long, still moment; each seemingly lost in own thoughts.

"The simple act of breathing," Aramis said softly, "drives the worst nightmares away."

"The simple act of breathin'," Porthos repeated sleepily. "I like that."

"Get some sleep, my friend," Aramis said softly, as he settled into the chair for the night.

"You don't 'ave to stay," Porthos mumbled.

"I know," Aramis replied.

Porthos hummed and closed his eyes.

The scent of sandalwood, the thought of his brothers and the sight of Aramis, very much alive, was all he needed.

oOo

Thanks for reading! Athos is up next.

 **A/N:** To understand where the term, "Hell's Bells and Buckets of Blood" comes from, you would have to go back to when William the Conqueror invaded England in 1066. The Norman invaders used chemical and psychological warfare in an attempt to break the spirit of the Saxon, Danish and Celtic populations. The Normans would ring church bells all day and all night for weeks on end. Usually the inhabitants of the target settlement either gave themselves up, or fled to Scotland, Wales or Ireland, all of which were well out of earshot. Those resistant to the bells were subjected to chemical warfare. A murdered victim would be thrown down the village well, late at night. Next morning, when they came to draw water, the bucket would come up full of blood. Eventually the whole village's water supply would be contaminated by blood, rotting flesh and maggots. And still the bells were rung! _(Info courtesy of auntiedoris website 2014_ _)_ _._

My mum used to say it all the time so I thought it was a good old Yorkshire saying, but no; French!

Porthos could have just shouted, " _Merde_!" of course, but this is _so much_ nicer and much more effective


	43. The Simple Act of Breathing: Athos

**43\. THE SIMPLE ACT OF BREATHING (3)**

 **Athos:**

The first time Athos had been injured after receiving his commission into the Musketeers, it had stolen his breath away.

He had had minor injuries in the past, though, as he progressed, achieving his level of swordsmanship had led to more bruises than actual slashes.

What cuts he had received had been shallow, obtained in practise bouts with members of his household. He was always going to survive.

No-one had actually wanted to _kill_ him.

Until he joined the King's elite guard.

Then, it seemed, everyone had such a wish.

oOo

The moment the blade sliced into his neck, he knew he was in trouble.

The air left his lungs; his heart started to hammer and then _stutter_ – and all too soon, his vision began to fade.

It was his inability to breathe that really chilled him.

He had held his breath when swimming, of course; but that was voluntary. He still had control.

He had held it when he first saw _her;_ wondering if he would ever breathe again ...

Now, as he raised his hand to the base of his neck, just above his collarbone, he felt the blood welling through his fingers and he felt himself on the verge of panic; a feeling he was unaccustomed to. Not panic at the injury itself, but at the feeling of his lungs being seemingly devoid of air and the chain reaction that it was setting off.

He would have found it interesting, if the situation had not been so dire.

His initial reaction was to gasp – but that only made it worse. He could not draw in enough air to settle himself and so he sank to his knees, his hand clasped tightly to his neck.

He closed his eyes.

If this was to be his last day, he would not leave this earth panicking; eyes wild with fear.

All sound around him ceased, whether a product of his mind closing down or the actual truth of it, he did not know. But then, another hand covered his and he was looking up into a familiar face.

 _Aramis_.

Aramis would take care of the wound, but it would be up to Athos himself to calm his heart and slow the blood that continued to pump through his fingers. How, he did no know.

So he took a deep breath and held it.

For a moment, he felt his heart slow; only for it to race again and flutter uncomfortably in his chest.

Aramis was muttering quietly to himself as he pushed down on the wound. Between them, perhaps they could stop his life blood flowing into the dirt. All too soon, the darkness threatened to cut off his own attempts.

" _Stay awake."_

He focussed on Aramis's words.

It was all he could do.

oOo

It seemed a long ride back to the Garrison.

Later he would realise it was not at all but he was light-headed and his eyes were shut tight in concentration. He could hear Porthos yelling to the guard on the gate and soon he was being manhandled from his horse. He gasped at the sudden spike of pain and his heart started to quicken once more. The two were obviously related, but this was his first serious injury and he was unsure what his body was doing.

Aramis and Porthos kept saying, "Stay with us," and he was trying, he really was, but now he was being half carried into the infirmary and was no longer in charge of his own body. By necessity, he had to relinquish that.

 _Think of something else. Concentrate - on their voices; on the sounds around him._

Outwardly, he showed little sign of panic; calmly acquiescing to those who knew what to do. But inside, his mind raced at how to master his own body. He had always had that ability. He had simply gritted his teeth and got on with it.

However, he had never lost blood. Not like this.

He had never felt something ebbing away; his thoughts, his reason, his very life?

Before he knew it, he was on his back and surrounded by people, though by now he was beginning to lose focus.

Further pressure on his neck made him gasp once more, taking his breath.

With all his will, he focussed on his racing heart.

Taking small breathes, it began to respond; no longer hammering but the pace was fast and he could not totally control it.

Memories assailed him.

He remembered how Remy used to pump the water from the well outside his smithy in Pinon.

Even strokes of the handle, in a the steady rhythm.

As he thought on it, seeing the image of Remy in his mind's eye, he began to take a breath with each imagined pull.

Steady, even, fluid.

Gradually, he could breathe a little deeper as he kept the pace steady.

His body was becoming heavy but he did not know if this was due to his slower breathing or blood loss.

Someone gripped his hand. The blood pounding in his ears was all he heard, but he felt the sharpness of the needle entering the wound. Pain flared once more. Gathering himself, he maintained his newly-found skill; continuing to breathe in sync with each imagined pull of the well handle.

He felt the tug of each stitch. Heard now the murmured words as Aramis continued. Felt the warmth of Porthos's hand covering his own.

He could let go now.

He had control once more. His heart rate and breathing were now subtly linked to each other. He would remember this lesson.

He felt his body grow limp as the voices faded.

Just before he lost awareness, he heard Aramis's voice, clear and true:

" _He'll be alright now."_

oOo

Thanks for reading! Aramis next.


	44. The Simple Act of Breathing: Aramis

**44\. THE SIMPLE ACT OF BREATHING (4)**

 **Aramis:**

" _Breathe, Aramis_."

He was trying.

It had been getting more difficult.

This morning, he had been sparring with Athos. Driven across the yard by a particular volley of complex manoeuvres, he had finally conceded, his back against a post and very much winded.

Athos backed off, frowning as he watched Aramis bend over in an attempt to pull in air.

It wasn't really working, and, unsteady on his feet, Athos caught his flailing arm, dropping his own sword to the ground.

"What ails you, Aramis?" Athos asked urgently, looking around for Porthos and beckoning him over with a quick wave of his hand; the other on the back of Aramis's neck.

"What's 'appened?" Porthos asked, himself a little breathless from his hand-to-hand combat with several of the recruits.

"Winded, I think," Athos replied quietly, "but let us get him away from this dust," he added, as they both took an arm and began to move him slowly to the infirmary; fortunately not too far away.

By the time they got him there, he was breathing a little more easily and Porthos was cracking jokes about him getting old, losing his touch and needing more uninterrupted sleep; the last said with an accompanied lascivious wink.

"Just a little breathless," Aramis gasped, as they helped him down onto a vacant cot.

"And not a maiden in sight," Porthos laughed.

However, he did reach forward and helped Aramis discard his sparring doublet.

"Just winded," Aramis managed, as he relinquished the jacket and pulled his shirt sleeves down.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a puzzled look.

"That would require a blow to the abdomen," Athos countered. "We've all had that. You did not receive such a blow."

Just as he was about to object, Aramis was seized by a severe bout of coughing.

"Porthos," Athos said gently, "Please go for Dr Lemay."

"There's...no need..." Aramis gasped as Athos moved to the table in the corner and poured water into a cup.

Striding back, Athos thrust the cup at him.

"There is every need. None of your nonsense," he said firmly.

"Porthos, if you please," he added, and Porthos nodded. Turning to go, he pointed at their stricken friend;

"Stay there," he growled. "I won't be long."

Athos took the cup back from Aramis and moved across the room to sit at the table, giving the man some space.

Dr Lemay duly arrived and after a thorough examination, he diagnosed secretions of the chest.

They all moved outside to discuss the patient, knowing he would not wish to be discussed as if he were not there. Sitting at their usual table, they waved d'Artagnan across when he rode through the archway on his return from Palace guard duty.

"What is it?" he asked, hurrying over at the sight of the good doctor and his worried friends conversing.

"Aramis has taken ill," Athos replied quietly, waving his hand for Lemay to continue their discussion, now including d'Artagnan, who sat down heavily next to Porthos. Porthos nodded at him and patted his arm.

"It is a build up of mucus and fluid. It must run its course, I fear," Lemay was saying.

"How could this 'appen?" Porthos asked the question they were all thinking. It seemed to have come on so suddenly.

"It can build up slowly over time, until the lungs are compromised," Lemay responded. "Have you noticed any other symptoms?"

"He's been off 'is food," Serge said gruffly, as he approached the table with a tray of cups and a flagon of wine.

"He's been hidin' some aches too," Porthos added taking the flagon, pouring wine and passing it around.

"You'll 'ave your work cut out, keeping that one still," Serge muttered, shaking his head. "He 'as my good wishes, though," he added quietly as he limped off, empty tray in hand.

Lemay nodded at the additional information the Musketeers offered, becoming lost in thought for a moment;

"Rub his back vigorously as he coughs; he will need to expel the mucus," he said. "There are some herbs and roots I can try. I will make up some lozenges of myrrh, cinnamon and angelica root. The herb wintergreen will help settle any pain in his chest. Otherwise, rest and a light diet is all I can offer."

"And if he gets worse?" Athos asked somberly, looking down at the cup of wine held tightly in his hand.

"Then, I will come, of course. But, I have nothing else to offer. I will make some medicinal preparations up and return in a few hours. In the meantime, close the shutters. The foul air of Paris will not help him breathe."

Lemay took his leave and the three men moved back into the Infirmary.

Porthos closed the shutters, shutting out light and sun and leaving the room shrouded in gloom; much like their moods.

Watching them, Aramis spoke up.

"This is all rather gloomy."

"Why didn't you say something?" d'Artagnan asked, sitting heavily on the next cot.

"Nothing to tell," Aramis said, pressing his hand to his uncomfortable chest, and taking small measured breaths.

"Aramis," Athos sighed, leaning against the window frame.

Looking at them all in turn, Aramis sighed.

"It was just a little tiredness. A little tightness," he replied.

"Why did you spar with me?!" Athos said fiercely then. "Did you not think you would be compromised?"

"Sorry," Aramis said quietly.

"No, no, carry on," Athos replied angrily. "Allow me to be responsible for your collapse."

Athos glared at Aramis for a long moment, before turning and striding quickly from the room. Aramis stared at the door, a sudden fit of coughing confirming Athos's admission of despair. Porthos sighed and pulled the sheet up, trying to make his brother as comfortable as he could.

"Don't mind 'im. He's just incredibly angry at you," he said, raising a weak smile from Aramis.

"I'll get you another pillow," d'Artagnan said, then, following his mentor out of the room.

"Get some rest. Lemay's coming back with some of 'is foul-tasting medicine," Porthos said.

"That's cheering," Aramis said, settling himself as best he could; exhausted from the morning's events.

Later, on hearing about the infirmary's latest patient, courtesy of d'Artagnan, Madame Crecy brought him his lavender-scented pillow, her usual practise with each of The Inseparables. She took her leave quickly, not wishing to intrude or overstep her duties. As she left though, she cast her eye around the dim room and at the two quiet men sitting at the table in the corner.

The only sound in the room was Aramis's laboured breathing.

Over the next few days, Aramis's breathing did not improve. He was listless and miserable. He and Athos made their peace and together, his brothers all attempted to care for and entertain him but his usual cheerful outlook had fled. He lay propped up in bed and had taken to holding his pillow to his chest, breathing in the scent of lavender. Although, along with his usual good humour, that too was fading.

His chest was tight and no amount of coughing could loosen the mucous in his lungs; the air wheezed in and out of him as he attempted to pull in any air he could.

Thoroughly exhausted, yet restless, he opened his eyes one morning to find Madame Crecy looking down at him, a concerned look on her face, a freshly laundered and scented pillowcase in her hand.

"I have a better place for you," she said. "But we will need help."

She turned and strode purposefully from the room, leaving him puzzled.

A few hours later, Aramis could be found sitting in the laundry, adjacent to one of the large copper tubs; surrounded by appreciative women.

He was in his shirt sleeves, his hair slicked back courtesy of the damp, steamy atmosphere. Madame did not countenance shirkers though and she had set him a task; his fingers were nimbly rolling freshly washed bandages.

If any of his Parisian ladies saw him like this, his reputation as a fearless marksman-musketeer would be sorely damaged.

But here, in the company of humble laundresses in the steamy atmosphere of the laundry, he was breathing calmly, better than he had been in days; the atmosphere infinitely preferable to the dim infirmary room.

He was, in fact, in his element.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

 **A/N:**

Much still had to be learnt in the early part of the 17th century. I wanted to used the term, "chest infection," but of course I couldn't. Those lozenges were actually used though. Whether they were palatable is another matter.

By the end of the 17th century, a more clinical and scientific approach to health, based on actual observation, gradually began to appear. This laid the foundations for the much greater progress that was to be made in the next century.

More Infirmary Talks soon, after my holiday. Unless, inspiration strikes before I go ...


	45. Cold Comfort

A longer one today, dear readers, as I have been away...

 **45\. COLD COMFORT**

 **Porthos and Athos:**

They looked like they were asleep.

It was a better thought than the alternative, Aramis thought as the door crashed into the wall on its hinges.

d'Artagnan was at his back, breathing heavily from their frantic run from the run-down tavern down the narrow alley to the last buildings on the left which backed onto the river, amongst warehouses and buildings of unknown use; many locked and barred, their windows thick with grime, built up over many a year.

The door rebounded and Aramis caught it, his fingers curling around the edge. It was not a wooden door but a metal one and the coldness of it penetrated his fingers, making him release his hand as his body sagged into it, sending it once more into the wall. It was a small windowless room and Aramis was sure of its purpose when he saw his breath curl like steam in front of his face.

It was an ice house.

It was black as pitch inside but the last hour of a bright, full moon cast a shaft of eerie light before them, illuminating the two motionless figures on the floor in the corner.

Porthos was in a sitting position with Athos propped in front of him, arms tight around him. Across from them, blocks of ice gleamed pearlescent in the moonlight. Aramis was lost at the sight before them. d'Artagnan pushed past him, one strangled word bringing him back to his senses;

" _NO …!"_

oOo

 **Earlier:**

Athos and Porthos pushed quietly into the tavern, looking for Martin Lamont.

It was a simple job, to seek and arrest the man thought to be a prolific privateer. He was unscrupulous, often using extreme violence and his dealings had drawn the attention of the King himself, who had seen shipments of his own fall into the man's hands. The Inseparables had spent several weeks seeking him, using reliable informants. They had knowledge he was ready to make a break to the south coast of England, out of reach of the French Authorities. What they did not know was the scale of his operation and just how many local brigands relied upon his services and were, therefore, unwilling to see him arrested.

The information on Lamont's whereabouts was sound, as far as the Musketeers could ascertain, so that just left them to decide which two of them should make the arrest. In the end, they tossed a coin. Two of them were required for Palace guard duty due to a visiting Swedish nobleman and a lavish banquet held in his honour. Whichever two of them drew "heads" would make the arrest, the remaining two would then join the Palace guard duty.

The coin wad flipped and the four watched as it gained height, flashing in the noon sun, before losing momentum and falling into the outstretched palm of Porthos. He flipped it onto the back of one hand and covered it with the other.

"d'Artagnan," he breathed, as he held d'Artagnan's expectant gaze, drawing out the moment.

"Tails," Porthos said, as the coin was revealed. That eliminated d'Artagnan. He huffed in disappointment. None of them wanted guard duty.

Porthos yawped out a laugh as the coin flew into the air again.

"Athos," he said, looking at Athos. Athos inclined his head to him, indicating that Porthos should take the call. Porthos grinned.

d'Artagnan had sat down but he still craned his neck, eager to see which one of them would share guard duty with him that night.

Porthos drew it out as long as he could before Athos banged his cup on the table.

"Enough. Just show us the damned coin," he growled.

"Heads," Porthos said, and Athos smiled. He much preferred an arrest to a banquet any day.

"My turn," Porthos said next.

For the third and last time, the coin flew into the air at the flick of Porthos's thumb. He caught it deftly and flipped it onto the back of his hand once more, before immediately revealing it.

"Heads," he said, winking at Athos. "You and me, brother."

In response, Athos downed his wine and turned toward the stables.

"Gentlemen," he murmured, "Enjoy the banquet," he added, pulling his hat low over his eyes, before striding away, leaving d'Artagnan and Aramis resigned to an evening of standing for hours, watching a motley group of nobles enjoying themselves and stuffing their faces.

Little did they know what would occur within a few hours and what the cost would be of splitting up.

oOo

In the tavern, Lamont stood and faced them.

It seemed, he was expecting them.

Suddenly, all Hell broke out as he yelled a command and it seemed that everyone in the tavern rose en masse and scattered. Taking advantage of the disruption, Lamont himself disappeared through the front door in the melee.

Athos and Porthos looked at each other and sighed, both drawing their swords.

"Take the back," Athos yelled as he headed out the front of the tavern, following Lamont. Porthos instantly did as he was bid, pushing his way through those few men still sitting at tables who had seen such action many times and were seemingly unconcerned.

Outside, Athos rounded the corner of a nearby street and came face to face with Lamont.

The man had been waiting for him.

Pain suddenly erupted in the front of his shoulder, though he had been struck from behind. Uncomprehending, he was yanked back, before the pain of the weapon being withdrawn sent him to his knees. Something clattered behind him as the weapon was discarded. Lamont walked toward him and stood over him.

"You underestimate the service I offer, Musketeer. They would never let you take me," he snarled, before putting his foot to Athos's damaged shoulder and pushing him backward.

"Get rid of him," he said, before striding off.

Athos felt himself lifted roughly and had the briefest moment to wonder where Porthos was, before darkness claimed him.

oOo

In the darkness, Porthos groaned.

Lifting his hand to his head, he winced as he felt the lump and the warm stickiness of blood. He levered himself into a sitting position and fought off the nausea that rolled over him, before looking around. It really was pitch black. He doubted his eyes would adjust as he wondered if he was underground. After a few moments of deep breathing, he became aware of another noise nearby.

 _Breathing_.

He was not alone.

He stilled as he listened for a few moments.

"Who's there?" he finally growled.

The groan he heard was instantly recognisable.

"Athos?! he grunted, stretching his hand out along the ground and feeling his way.

Rising to his knees, he ignored the searing pain in his head and crawled a few paces forward.

"It's me. Where the 'ell are you?"

Suddenly, his hand fell on his friend's back. Athos was attempting to rise and failing miserably. Porthos reached for his arm and pulled him forward toward him.

There was a yell and Athos suddenly went limp.

Porthos released him immediately, before reaching out and gently running his hands over the leather jacket. Hauling him over, he felt the front of his shirt, and sighed when his hand came away slick with blood. He pulled off his jacket and examined the injury as best he could in the darkness.

"Bugger it," he moaned, pulling off Athos's scarf and pushing it over the wound.

By now, Porthos was beginning to realise how unnaturally cold it was, as his breath curled in front of him, the only thing he could see.

Clumsily feeling his way around in the pitch black, he yelped as his hand touched an ice cold block, the skin almost sticking to the surface.

"A bloody ice house," he groaned.

Thinking hard, Porthos pulled off his belt and began to chip off a piece of ice using the buckle of his belt. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he staggered back to Athos, almost falling over him, and wrapped the ice in Athos's scarf, pushing it over the area of the wound. He did not like to touch too closely but the ice was large enough to cover the area. He needed to get Athos's jacket back on him quickly and he shoved Athos's good arm back into the sleeve of his jacket, leaving the other sleeve hanging, for when he had him on his feet and he could help. Because they would have to take to their feet the moment Athos woke. Sitting down in such a cold place was not an option. He had seen too many people close their eyes to the cold and not wake up again. The morning after a cold night in the Court always yielded cold, stiff dead bodies, looking as though they had just fallen asleep.

Athos stirred.

"I'm here," Porthos grunted, as he took him under each arm and carefully hauled him to his feet.

"What are we doing?" Athos gasped quietly; confused.

"We're walkin'," Porthos responded bluntly.

"Where to?"

"Round in a circle. Ten paces one way and eight the other."

"That is not a circle," Athos slurred. "That is a rectangle."

Porthos sighed. "Yeah, well, we haven't all 'ad your education," he growled.

"We're in an ice house, Athos," Porthos added. "We can't afford to sit still."

"I am familiar with ice houses," Athos answered quietly.

There had been several on his family's estate. He was aware of how cold they could become if you were inside too long. Or locked inside, depending on who you were with. Punishments could be quite brutal in Pinon.

Athos pushed his memories aside as Porthos took hold of his belt at the back and pulled him into his side. Reaching for the hanging sleeve of Athos's jacket, he levered his friend's arm into it, before taking hold of his other hand and gently pushing it inside his jacket to hold the scarf in place over the wound.

"Hold on to that. Press it if you can," he grunted.

He fastened the jacket as high as he could then so that it supported his arm.

"Right foot forward, soldier," Porthos grunted, bearing his friend's weight. "We 'ave to walk this night away. Aramis and d'Artagnan will find us, but they won't miss us this night. We will 'ave to wait to see what the mornin' brings.

"Going to be a long night ..." Athos murmured, stumbling forward.

"You're right there," Porthos replied, as they set off, each putting one foot in front of the other.

oOo

At some point, the moon must have emerged from the clouds. Looking up, Porthos saw the glimmer of light. Six pinpricks of light. He had felt the door when they first started to walk, and now he saw that there were six small air holes in the brickwork above the door.

"Sit here for a bit" he said, sliding Athos down onto the floor. "Don't fall asleep."

"What are you doing?"

Porthos walked over to the ice blocks and pulled his sleeves over his hands, before bending and pushing one out of its formation and across the floor.

The block slid easily across the floor once he got it moving, and he brought it to rest next to the door. Stepping up carefully, he pulled his bandana off and tied a knot in one end, before threading the other end through the hole, where he hoped it would act as a sign of their incarceration.

"Leavin' a sign," Porthos grunted, carefully stepping down from the slippery surface and pushing the block away from the door, where it would not impede any rescue.

"Up you get, brother," he said as he pulled Athos to his feet once more. "You'll soon be in the Infirmary."

"That's encouraging," Athos grunted.

oOo

The air was not only cold, it was damp.

Their breath hissed out of them in white vapour, as they continued to pace.

They had long since stopped counting. Each step grew heavier.

The effort of holding Athos upright was draining what little strength Porthos had left. The blow to his head had made his head ache, and his thoughts were muddled as they tried to keep each other going with tales and anecdotes. Porthos kept getting mixed up, but if correcting him served to keep Athos awake, it was alright with him.

Dawn. First light would bring them reprieve, he knew. Once Aramis and d'Artagnan realised they had not returned, they would set out.

"I cannot walk any more," Athos whispered.

"Keep goin'" Porthos said. "It's too early to stop. The cold will get us if we stop."

Porthos stopped for a moment to check that the ice was still wrapped tightly against Athos's wound, but although the blood had slowed, it was still sluggishly seeping through his scarf. The only good thing was he could not feel it.

"Remember when Aramis fell in that river, an' we found him under the waterfall, trapped in eddies, goin' round and round?" he chuckled.

"That was d'Artagnan," Athos grunted, reaching to grab Porthos's belt to stop himself slipping on the frozen ground as they passed near the ice blocks.

"Was it?"

"Hmmmm. It was … Aramis who … jumped in to pull him out."

"Oh, yeah, then you 'ad to jump in and pull them both out."

"While you watched," Athos grunted.

"Couldn't swim too good back then," Porthos laughed.

"That's the reason we decided to teach you," Athos said, and Porthos could hear the smile in his voice.

The dark night wore on.

"Goddamn, I can't walk much further," Athos sighed, after a long time of being silent.

"Me neither," Porthos gasped. "Don't worry, our midnight walkin' in dark buildings is over for a while."

The night was drawing to a close, the airbricks showed dim light outside, and Porthos was exhausted.

"I am pleased to hear it," Athos replied.

"Just a bit more daylight walkin'"

Athos stopped dead in his tracks.

"You carry on, just leave me here," he said softly.

Porthos would have laughed, but he suddenly realised that Athos was serious.

"I ain't leavin' you while I ponce around keepin' warm," Porthos growled.

Athos's head had sunk to his chest, and Porthos reached over and pulled it up. His eyes were closed. He was almost asleep on his feet. There was a sheen on his forehead that Porthos did not like. Short of carrying him, he realised he would have to stop. But stopping brought dangers of the body shutting down. What to do?

Athos's knees started to buckle and Porthos had his answer.

Porthos pulled Athos into the corner, as far away from the ice blocks as he could. But his own legs were beginning to refuse to co-operate; he suddenly lurched and his back hit the wall. He started to slide down, still clinging to Athos. Hitting the floor with a grunt, he pulled Athos to him, so that his friend's back was to his chest, and sighed.

"Stay awake," he growled, but Athos was already asleep.

"Damn," he said quietly.

He tightened his arms around Athos, before closing his eyes.

Just for a second …

oOo

When d'Artagnan and Aramis returned from guard duty, they were surprised that Athos and Porthos were not at the Garrison. The banquet had gone on for an hour longer than had originally been planned and it was late to go off in search of two Musketeers, who may just be still searching for their prey before executing their duty.

However, in the hour before dawn, and still up, Aramis and d'Artagnan agreed that they would go to the last place they discussed, the tavern on the edge of the Seine, where Lamont was known to ply his trade.

As the light began to spill into the streets from the weak sun that rose above thin clouds, all was quiet in the street where the tavern was. The inn itself was shut up and locked tight. Nearby, under a lean-to, they discovered Porthos and Athos's horses.

This was not good.

Aramis ran his hand over the horses' noses, as d'Artagnan checked them.

"They're fine," he muttered.

"Where are your masters?" Aramis whispered.

Leaving the horses, they both looked around, straying into side streets. After a futile search, they crossed to the side of the street where the river lay and as luck would have it, a few beggars littered doorways. For a coin or two, they learned that Lamont had gone; seen riding off. The man had got away. But where were their brothers?

They retraced their steps, before Aramis stepped upon something that nearly made him lose his footing. Looking down, he saw a wicked looking instrument. It was a long thin hook, with a wooden handle parallel to the thick stem. Taking it under a burning street lantern, they could see it was wet with a dark stain.

Aramis ran his fingers gently over the hook.

"Blood," he whispered.

"What sort of weapon is it?" d'Artagnan asked warily.

"It's an ice hook, used for moving blocks of ice; used by butchers, fishmongers … anyone who wants to keep something fresh."

"Bodies?" d'Artagnan ventured.

"Don't" Aramis snarled.

"Where would ice be kept?" d'Artagnan asked, placing his hand firmly on Aramis's forearm.

Aramis shook himself.

"Where are the ice houses?!" he shouted at the nearest beggar, who raised a trembling hand to the end of the alley behind the tavern.

Typically, they were small, narrow buildings, for economical use of blocks of ice. There were gullies which ran down the middle of the floor to allow water to drain away under the door, once the blocks began to melt. Those gullies also took away blood, which ran into the Seine at the back of the ice house.

"Do you not have ice houses on your farm?" Aramis said distractedly, as he looked round. There were many such buildings, now he knew what to look for.

"There was no need," d'Artagnan replied, "our store houses were full of root vegetables and hay. Meat was eaten quickly or salted. We never had fish."

Suddenly, he saw something fluttering half way down the alley. They both moved quickly toward it and looked up.

Aramis laughed.

"It's Porthos's bandana," he said, pulling out his pistol.

"Are you sure?" d'Artagnan said, eyeing the pistol and wary of making a noise.

"We are on the King's business," Aramis said before aiming at the door.

The noise sent the flocks of pigeons roosting in nearby eaves noisily skywards, but it worked. The door lock disintegrated and the door sagged on its hinges.

Aramis took hold of the door.

oOo

d'Artagnan pushed past Aramis and skidded to a halt before Porthos and Athos. Aramis quickly caught him up and dropped to his knees, his hand reaching out for Porthos's neck, searching for a heartbeat.

"Is he? …" d'Artagnan whispered, as he did the same to Athos.

After a few moments, Aramis sighed.

"Faint, but there," he said softly, taking off his jacket.

"Same, here," d'Artagnan smiled, before shrugging off his own jacket.

"Musketeers don't die easily," he said.

"No, they take the long route," Aramis muttered, as he opened Athos's jacket and pulled his scarf out. Shards of ice scattered around them, and Aramis laughed.

"Clever," he said.

"Stab wound of some sort, still bleeding, but sluggish. Stay here, keep them as warm as you can while I go for help," he said quickly, before he was off through the doors.

d'Artagnan put both jackets over them. Sitting together as they were, it was an easy task to put both jackets on top of each other.

There was nothing more he could do until Aramis returned.

oOo

Aramis ran down the alley in the dawn light, as the city was coming to life.

Casting around wildly, he spotted a grain merchant unloading his sacks of grain from two carts onto boats tethered below on the Seine. Chains clanked as they took up the strain and swung the sacks over the edge of the quay and down onto the sturdy boats below, bobbing on the swell of the water as it lapped against the slimy brickwork.

Seeing the soldier running toward them, the merchant called a halt, and listened as Aramis quickly explained what had happened.

"I know Lamont," the man growled. "Not everyone supports him, Musketeer," he added, as he watched his men finish unloading the nearest cart. "He undercuts the lot of us. It's only those who buy from him cheaply who support him."

"You can take that cart," he said, "They're nearly finished. I'll send Marcel with you. We'll leave the horse in place. He knows the cart; he'll give no trouble, and Marcel knows how to handle a full cart."

"Thank you Monsieur," Aramis replied, clasping his hand in gratitude.

"You do the merchants a favour, ridding us of Lamont," the man replied. "Two of my men will go with you to help get your comrades onboard. In the meantime, we'll feed their horses and you can tie them to the back of the cart. I take it you'll ride your own horses?"

"If Marcel is driving the cart, then yes, we will."

Aramis had almost forgotten about Porthos and Athos's horses, but two such powerful beasts were hard to miss, standing under a lean-to a short distance from the tavern.

"Lamont will not be back any time soon," Aramis added. "He will be looking over his shoulder for a long time."

"If the King sends his Musketeers for him, I believe you," the merchant said. "The Treasury will have lost a lot in taxes to that man," he added gruffly.

When Aramis returned to the icehouse with the cart and the three men, d'Artagnan had thrown open the doors of the ice house to let the sun in. Athos and Porthos were still unresponsive but it was an easy matter to place them on the back of the cart with the help of the merchant's men. Marcel then jumped on to the driver's board and they set off to collect the two remaining horses. Once fed and tethered, they were placid enough to be tied to the rear of the cart. The journey back to the Garrison took a little longer as the city was coming noisily to life, but d'Artagnan and Aramis cleared the way, riding ahead, and soon they were pulling into the Garrison courtyard.

Aramis had never been so relieved.

oOo

Later, they would learn the lengths to which Porthos had gone to keep them both moving.

Right now, Aramis had to discover why they were both still unresponsive.

They had spent some time bringing their cold limbs back to warmth, but the sheen on Athos's forehead was indicative of a fever, and Porthos's pupils were pinpricks, which Lemay said indicated a concussion, at the very least.

Treville stood in the background as Lemay continued his examinations, seething with anger.

"Why didn't we know the extent of that man's reach?" he had demanded. "They walked into a situation of overwhelming odds."

"We share your anger, Captain, but according to the grain merchant," Aramis said, "there are many people in Paris only too willing to buy cheaply. Especially as the King continues to raise taxes."

"Be careful, Aramis," Treville hissed.

Aramis threw down the clothe he had been using to wipe Athos's brow, but held his tongue.

"The King lost a valuable shipment to that man," Treville added, though when Aramis rounded on him, he saw that his Captain had a careful smile on his face.

"That is truly a shame," he said softly. "However will he cope?"

He acknowledged his Captain's frown that he had again overstepped his mark, and returned to his task.

Lemay packed up his bag and turned to Treville.

"A word with you Captain?"

"In my office," Treville grunted and turned, leaving the doctor to follow him.

Aramis and d'Artagnan retired to the table in the corner to wait.

oOo

It was Athos who woke first.

Still fevered, he struggled when Aramis put hands on his shoulder to calm him.

"No more walking, Porthos. Get your hands off me, dammit!" he growled.

Aramis exchanged a look with d'Artagnan.

"Leave me be," Athos murmured, tossing his head to and fro.

"No more walking, mon ami," Aramis said as he gestured to d'Artagnan to pass a cup of water.

"No wonder they are exhausted," d'Artagnan said as he watched Aramis help Athos to a few mouthfuls of water.

"Well, I wouldn't argue with Porthos," Aramis smiled.

They both looked over at their other friend then, lying still in the next bed.

"He's probably been hauling Athos around all night," d'Artagnan said, the worry in his voice evident.

"He'll be alright, d'Artagnan. He's strong."

"But that's a very large lump on the back of his head," d'Artagnan muttered.

Later:

"Are you hungry, brother? We have broth," Aramis said, "Warming on the fire."

Athos looked blearily across and saw d'Artagnan gently stirring a pan over the fire.

"It was rabbit stew last evening," he said from across the room. "But you didn't show up, and the meat was eaten."

"I'd eat Porthos's bandana right now," Athos muttered.

"Oh," d'Artagnan said, stopping his stirring. "We left it behind!"

"We'll get him another one," Aramis laughed. "He wouldn't want that one back anyway."

"How is it?" d'Artagnan asked, as Athos managed a few spoonfuls of rabbit broth.

"Very palatable," Athos replied. "Thank you."

"It will still have some goodness in it," d'Artagnan replied. "There will be a substantial meal this evening. Serge has promised."

"Rest now, Athos," Aramis said. "Porthos is due to wake soon and he will want his dinner. Better to get as much rest as you can, you know how noisy he is."

"He can be as noisy as he wishes," Athos replied, looking over at him. "I would not be here now, if not for his strength. Of body and character," he added.

"So you forgive him for making you walk all night?"

"Of course," Athos replied, frowning; obviously unaware of his disparaging remarks earlier.

Aramis brought him another blanket, throwing it over him and tucking in the edges.

"Tomorrow, we will begin to work your shoulder," he said. "We have three days. But tonight, you eat and you rest."

"Three days?"

"Lemay's orders. Stay put," Aramis said firmly.

Aramis touched the back of his fingers to Athos's brow. "Still a little too warm," he muttered, moving over to the table and taking up a small bottle.

"Try this," he said, pouring a green liquid into a cup. "It's a new remedy of mine. I have put a little honey into it to make it less sharp."

"As palatable as the broth," Athos said after tasting it. Aramis did not know whether Athos was being sarcastic, but he had said he had enjoyed the broth, so he soldiered on.

"Good, drink it all," Aramis replied, folding his arms and standing over him.

"I will not argue, it if works. This is damned painful," Athos admitted.

"It was not a straight wound," Aramis replied. A hook did that. It was difficult to pack and sew."

"I did not see what he used," Athos replied.

"We found a bloodied ice hook. It was how we knew to look for an ice house," Aramis smiled. "And I know noble blood when I see it."

Athos's mouth hovered on the edge of a smile.

oOo

The first thing Porthos asked for when he woke up was a foot massage and his dinner.

In that order.

Things must have been bad, Aramis smiled as he warmed some oil between his palms.

oOo

"Bed rest for three days," Treville confirmed later from the doorway, where he carefully observed Athos.

Athos opened his mouth to protest just as Treville strode across the room and pulled a book from inside his jacket.

He held it out to Athos on his injured side.

"Hold that for me," he said firmly.

Athos looked at it.

"I can't," he finally replied, holding his gaze.

"Exactly," Treville said. "You are no use to us like that. Three days. Lemay's orders," he finished.

Athos's eyes slid away.

Treville leaned over and touched Athos's uninjured hand with the book.

Athos took hold of it and looked at the spine.

"I believe you will find it interesting," Treville said, "Over the next three days."

It was a history of battle tactics, including eye witness accounts of some of the great battles of the previous two centuries.

"I will want a full report," Treville said, "I have no time to read books."

Athos smiled.

"Yes, sir, I will endeavour to complete it within the allotted time."

"I am sure you will," Treville said, looking at Porthos, d'Artagnan and Aramis. "Barring interruptions."

Later, the book fallen to his side, Athos opened his eyes to Porthos sitting beside him.

After he had focussed fully, he reached out and took Porthos's hand.

"Thank you," he said. "I doubt I would have survived if you had not been there."

"No, you probably would have frozen on the ground, with that wound."

"I believe we walked a few leagues."

"That we did. You kept me entertained with your colourful curses. How did a liege lord learn such language?" Porthos laughed.

"A misspent youth in the trees of Pinon. Some of the boys thought it was amusing to teach the Comte's son some of their more descriptive curses."

"And what did you do for them?"

Athos sighed.

"I taught two of them to read. It got them away from the fields and into a slightly better life. Two of the others, the sword. I believe they joined the army. One of them is still alive, the last I heard," Athos said sadly. His father had not looked quite as kindly on his actions.

"Here now," Porthos said, "That's a good thing; offering somethin' like that to someone with no other options."

Athos looked away, but Porthos persisted.

"I wish I'd had known you when I was a boy, Athos," he said seriously. "I mean that."

Athos's eyes filled with tears.

"I would have wished it too," he whispered, knowing what he did of Porthos's childhood.

Porthos patted his hand, "Now then, none of that, you get some rest. Aramis wants this fever of yours dealt with today."

"Alright, but I cannot lie here much longer."

"You know the score," Porthos growled. "Three days, then we'll see. That's a nasty wound, Athos. Small, but deep. And dirty." he added, pinning him with a fierce look. "That could have finished you off."

"Three days seems a long time," Athos sighed.

"It will fly by and then you'll be grumblin' about your light duties - "unbecomin' of a Musketeer."

"I never say that. Right now, I would welcome stable duty."

"Yeah, well, your shoulder wouldn't," Porthos said, standing. "Just rest, eat and sleep and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

"Where are you off to now?" Athos asked.

"Goin' to fetch you a flagon of wine. Can't 'ave you sufferin' needlessly, can we?"

"Good man," Athos said, softly, picking up the book once more.

"Is it a good book?" Porthos asked.

"Rather heavy going," Athos replied. "Treville chose well."

Porthos laughed out loud. It was a good sound.

"Good to 'ave you back."

"You too. It's good to be back," Athos replied.

"All for one," Porthos nodded.

"And one for all." Athos responded, opening his book.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	46. Sick Bay

A different kind of infirmary for the next two stories and a chance for Aramis to increase his knowledge.

 **46\. SICK BAY**

 **Athos and Aramis:**

Aramis had waited until the last boat had stolen ashore in the small bay and landed on the shingle. He estimated fifteen men, merely shadows in the darkness but the crunch of shingle under their feet confirmed his calculation; here or there.

Athos was not amongst them.

His eyes turned to the dark outline of the three-masted ship, anchored in the bay.

There had been a full moon but now it crept behind dark clouds in the ominous skies. If Aramis was to go, he would have to go soon.

Looking around, he saw he was alone now and crept down to the shore. He had left his horse in a local establishment where he had taken a room for the night. He had seen no sign of Roger, and feared for the stallion's welfare. However, with his own horse in its stable, he would himself not be missed and he had walked the short distance to the bluff overlooking the bay, after overhearing a disturbing discussion about the ship that was now anchored there.

Athos had gone ahead to search of the man believed to be the captain of this ship. Not the original captain, however. He would be long gone, along with his crew. Dropped off on some distant island perhaps, or murdered. These men were pirates and they had abandoned ship quickly and disappeared into the night.

oOo

One of the small boats the pirates had used to get ashore now sat half in the waves. Aramis put his shoulder to it and shoved it further into the water. Jumping aboard, he frowned at this wet boots, before taking up the oars and heaving the vessel back into the surf, toward the ship looming behind him.

The ladder used by the fleeing pirates was still swaying against the side of the ship and he tied his boat to it before climbing nimbly up and dropping softly onto the deck.

It was an eerie feeling as he crept around the deserted ship, before finally taking steps down to the lower deck. Throwing open doors, all rooms were empty; signs of a swift departure evident with items strewn across the floors.

Oil lamps still burned along the narrow corridor as he made his way to a further set of steps at the end, which obviously led to the hold. The only sound was the creak of wood as the ship swayed on the water.

Walking warily down the wooden steps into the dark hold, his senses were heightened as he scanned the expanse beneath him. Crates and barrels were stacked high, with only a narrow space to walk between. Aramis ran his fingers over the crates, some of which had been prized open, revealing a variety of contents. Moving along, he suddenly spotted movement ahead of him on the floor and quickened his pace.

There, laying on a few sacks and tethered to the wooden planks behind him, was Athos.

Aramis quickly put his hand on his shoulder and heard a resultant soft groan.

In the dim light, he raised his friend's shirt and drew in a breath as he saw that he had been whipped.

"Athos, my friend? It's Aramis. Lay still while I look at your back."

Fortunately, it seemed whoever did this had been interrupted. However, there were three deep, open scores across his back.

"Where are we?" Athos muttered.

"In the hold of a ship."

"Am I shot?"

"No, whipped. Did you find our man?"

"Yes, he was the Captain."

"How were you captured?" Aramis asked out of curiosity, as he continued to check Athos out. It was unlikely for Athos to find himself so.

"I was outnumbered," Athos grunted. "Where are they?" he added looking blearily around.

"They have abandoned ship. There is talk of sickness here."

"How did you get here?"

"On a small boat. With oars," Aramis responded, rubbing his shoulder, now reminded of his tussle in the waves.

"Are we at sail?"

"No, we're anchored in the bay."

Athos looked confused.

"I believe you did set sail, but then sickness prevailed and the "Captain" turned back. They then abandoned ship, otherwise they would have been held here."

"As we are?" Athos asked.

"Not if I can get us off before dawn, my friend," Aramis smiled.

"And if we cannot?"

Aramis frowned.

"You must get up soon, we must show ourselves on deck and prove we are not sick.

"Otherwise?"

"They keep us here until we are proved well, or we die of whatever the sickness is."

"And how long will that take?"

Aramis knew that Athos was asking questions to take his mind off the pain he was in, but he was happy to humour him.

"I have no idea, my friend," Aramis replied, running his hand through his hair. "In the meantime, I will go and see if I can find tools to free you and a better place to rest."

Making Athos as comfortable as he could, he made his way out of the hold and Athos was left alone in the dark. He closed his eyes, glad of the moment to gather himself.

Beneath him, he felt the roll of the waves, lifting and dropping the ship as the tides shifted.

oOo

"How do you feel?" the voice asked, bringing him back.

"Fine," Athos grudgingly replied, knowing it would irk Aramis. It was a game they played.

Aramis produced a chisel and a mallet and set about freeing Athos from the manacle around his ankle. Once free, he was able to fully examine his friend's back, wincing at the raw wounds.

"I have found the Sick Bay," he said softly. "Do you think you can stand? There may be something in there that I can use to help you."

Athos doubted very much that he could walk far, but neither could they stay where they were. It was dark and damp and he sorely wished for a more comfortable place to lay and so, he pulled himself up, the effort making his gasp; a response he quickly swallowed.

Looking at Aramis's hopeful face, he nodded.

"Of course. Lead on," he said.

It took a while to lead Athos out of the hold, up steps onto the lower deck, along the narrow corridor to the door at the end, where a fine sign displayed the words, "Sick Bay," in gold lettering.

"This has been a fine ship, in its time," he murmured.

"God save those who manned it," Aramis said softly, crossing himself. "Those men will pay for what they have done," he added. He had seen the remains of their spoils in a further section of the hold. Silks, silverware, artefacts from faraway. They had taken what they could carry, but had had to leave the rest. Among the treasures there were sacks of root vegetables, barrels of apples, salted beef and fish. In addition, there were boxes of hard biscuits and cheeses, wrapped in muslin and oiled clothes. The journey had obviously not finished for the original crew when they were captured, judging by the stores Aramis found.

Inside the Sick Bay, Aramis had already lit some tallow candles and he now heaved Athos over to one of the bunks, built into the side of the ship. There were six in all, comprising lower and upper bunks, making twelve beds in all. They were narrow, but adequate. Two had not been touched and it was to one of them that Aramis steered Athos, lowering him onto a lower berth.

Athos did not remember much after that, apart from the feeling of being rolled onto his side, his shirt taken from him and his boots tugged off.

oOo

The candlelight permeated his closed eyelids and he cracked open his eyes. The room was bathed in warm light from candles that Aramis had placed around the room.

Aramis was sat at a desk, pouring over a journal, his head propped on his hand; a glass sat at his elbow, which Athos noted enviously, looked like dark rum. He lay watching his friend for a while, quietly assessing his hurts. He cheekbone stung from a backhand he remembered receiving, and of course, the fiery pain in his back was making itself very noticeable. He began to steady his breathing, allowing himself to sink into the mattress, which felt remarkably comfortable after the sacks of earlier in the dark hold.

"Welcome back," Aramis said, without raising him head.

Athos smiled.

"For a ship, their Sick Bay is impressive," Aramis continued, holding up a small bottle and shaking it.

"They have had the services of a doctor?" Athos murmured.

"The original crew did. And a very interesting one, I think," Aramis replied, looking at him with smiling brown eyes. "Life on the ocean waves," he added, looking into the distance.

"You would get sea sick," Athos grunted.

"I am told the women of the South Seas are very …. attractive," Aramis winked.

"To you, all women are attractive," Athos said, shifting position carefully.

"How do you feel?" Aramis asked, pushing his chair back and quickly crossing the room to him.

"Somewhat disorientated."

"There is a slight swell," Aramis replied.

"I trust it will not get worse," Athos said, closing his eyes and slipping back into sleep.

oOo

The swell did get worse.

Athos was fine, but Aramis began to feel sick.

At some point, a small boat was seen heading toward them.

On board was the Harbour Master.

By this time, Aramis was feeling green but had to put on a good show if they were to be rescued.

"Stay within the Sick Bay," the Harbour Master called, "I will return in the morning to give my assessment."

"In the morning!" Aramis cried. "And how does the weather fare this evening?"

"There have been storms further out," the man replied, "It may get a little rough."

Aramis could almost see the man smiling.

"How do you even know there has been sickness aboard?" Aramis shouted at the man.

"The vessel is abandoned, is it not?" the man replied, as if it was obvious.

However, Aramis had seen the evidence with his eyes. These pirates had captured a Musketeer, and they had taken what they could carry and fled. He suspected the Harbour Master knew that, and was just glad they had gone.

"Have you heard from our Captain?" Aramis shouted.

"He is expected later this day, weather permitting," the main shouted back.

"Good," Aramis said under his breath. "That will wipe the smile off your face," he added, a little louder.

"What?" the man shouted, cupping his hand to his ear, as he bobbed up and down below.

"I trust he keeps up a good pace," Aramis replied, with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Watching the boat turn and head back to shore, it was then that he saw the man had untied his boat and had taken it with him, tied to the rear of his own. He turned on his heel in disgust and went back to the Sick Bay.

He and Athos were now stranded.

oOo

As dawn passed into early morning, Aramis checked on Athos's back, frowning at the sight that beheld him.

He had hoped they would be off the ship by now and that Athos could be treated, but that had not happened and he really would have to apply himself if he was to get Athos through this ordeal.

He tapped Athos's cheeks. A hand snaked up and grabbed his wrist, holding tight.

"It seems we are marooned for a while, my friend," Aramis said, in response. "Our Captain is on his way, but the Harbour Master will not allow us to leave if there is sickness aboard."

"Why does he think that?" Athos murmured. That short sentence seemed to take all his strength, and Aramis carefully released himself from Athos's grip and sighed.

"It seems this bay has history," he said softly, removing the bandage fully and manoeuvring Athos onto his side.

"History?" Athos slurred, his face half buried in the pillow, hair covering the rest.

"A tale of folklore, I thought," Aramis replied. "I heard talk of it in the tavern, when I learned about this ship being at anchor. Some years ago, plague came to this bay on a ship. Before anyone could stop them, the crew came ashore. The villagers were infected and the majority died. The survivors vowed never to allow the same to happen again."

"And how do they prevent it?" Athos murmured, through gritted teeth.

"There has been a vigilante force attached to the village ever since. They station themselves on the bluff and do not allow anyone ashore if sickness is suspected."

"How do they stop them?"

"They are armed, my friend."

"So, if we go up onto the deck, we have to look well." Athos concluded, astutely.

"No sign of sickness, no staggering, no slipping, and certainly no throwing up over the side," Aramis said lightly, but Athos could hear the concern in his voice.

"We can do that," Athos said valiantly, which brought a smile to Aramis's lips. Followed closely by a frown, which Athos saw from the corner of his eye.

"The trouble is, mon ami, we are here until Treville arrives. And the fresh water is on the deck."

"Ah," Athos replied.

oOo

Aramis was flipping through the leather bound journal in front of him, running his finger over the carefully inked words. Not for the first time, he wondered at the man who had committed his knowledge to paper. Looking behind him, he began to pull out a number of small drawers. They were labelled and numbered and those numbers corresponded to the remedies written in the journal.

Athos was deteriorating.

He rallied when spoken to, but was spending more time asleep. So far, Aramis had washed and dressed his wounds, but had not sewn them. He feared if he did so it would seal any infection into the wound.

Feeling a little desperate, he turned the next page of the journal and quickly scanned it.

Words passed before his tired eyes;

Sulphur, Quicksilver, Camphor, Mistletoe, Yarrow. Plus compounds he had never heard of, obtained no doubt from far away. Instructions for combining and reconstructing elements. And there! - well-executed drawings of wounds; examples of stitching that he had never seen before, tied in a different way, allowing a fine outcome with barely a scar if the words were to be believed. In the drawers were some of the elements and compounds referred to.

Aramis opened the doors of the long cupboards at the end of the room and found a pestle and mortar, small bellows and metal fire dish. All he needed to pound, combine and produce a paste that would hopefully, once applied, help to heal the wounds on Athos's back. Or at least buy them time. But he hoped for the former and judging by the copious notes and instructions, he had faith in this man. Not for the first time, he crossed himself and wished the unknown doctor health, wherever he was.

The room was lighter now, but there were no windows, so he lit a new set of candles and set to work following the instructions before him.

When he was finished, he compared the notes to what he had achieved, and he was happy. It smelt remarkably different from the pastes he had made in the past. The journal was now his most prized possession, for he was sure that he would not, could not, let it go when they eventually got off the ship.

He spread the paste carefully around and into the gashes on Athos's back, before applying a fresh bandage; something they were not short of in the drawers beneath the large cupboards. Again, Aramis sent up a prayer of thanks.

He left Athos muttering in his sleep and headed for the upper deck to refill his bucket with fresh water. Coming into the morning after a night in the dimly-lit Sick Bay, he was struck by the bright morning light and squinted towards the shore.

All was quiet, the sea had settled to a gentle swell.

Just then, something caught his eye up on the bluff.

There were men up there and as he watched he took a step back to reach for the spyglass next to the ship's wheel. Slipping on the wet deck, the wheel suddenly exploded in wooden splinters and he fell to the deck.

Someone was shooting.

"So what I heard was true," he angrily muttered, crawling on his belly back to the steps leading back down to the Sick Room. They were being watched and his slip had led the men on the bluff to believe he was showing signs of sickness. It had been enough for one of them to shoot. These men really were serious.

The ship had moved closer to shore during the night and was now at the length of its anchor.

They were within the firing range of a musket.

oOo

Aramis walked back into the Sick Bay with a bottle of fine cognac in his hand, obtained from the Captain's cabin. Pouring a glass, he sat on the edge of Athos's narrow bed and helped his friend to a few mouthfuls.

"I need you awake, Athos," he said softly. "If we are boarded by those fools, we are not going down like dogs."

They were not short of weapons; there were chests full of them in the hold. None the like that he had seen before. Some with wide curved engraved blades, some with narrow silver blades with jewel-encrusted handles.

"I doubt neither of us could walk in a straight line right now," Aramis sighed as he sat watching for any sign that Athos would wake. He himself had taken a few mouthfuls of the cognac, and together with the rum he had consumed during the night whilst he was reading, he was feeling less than alert.

"My apologies, my friend," he whispered, as he barred the door; the stash of weapons lay on the floor by the desk.

At one point, he leapt to his feet as Athos emitted a long drawn-out sigh.

Falling to his knees, he put his hand on his friend's forehead, as he sought to untie the bandage and inspect his wound.

As Athos opened his eyes and searched Aramis's face, Aramis buried his face in his friend's shoulder.

"I thought you had …." he whispered.

"Have you been drinking?" Athos grunted, patting his hand.

Aramis laughed.

"Just a little. It's been a difficult night. Let me check your wounds."

Lifting the bandage, Aramis's eyes widened a little. The wound looked much better, even after a few hours. Some good news, at last. Putting the bandage back in place, he pulled Athos's shirt down over his shoulders and helped him into a semi-raised position.

Picking up a sword and a dagger, he hefted them in his hands.

"Sword or dagger?" he asked.

"For what?" Athos asked, staring at him.

"I fear the folklore is true. There are vigilantes on the bluff, and I have inadvertently unnerved them. We may be boarded. I fear they will not take prisoners."

"That's murder," Athos growled.

"They are fearful, Athos. They lost most of their village. They saw horror and they are responding to it."

"And how many have they murdered over the years?"

"How are we to know? But they are serious, and we may have to defend ourselves."

But although he would fight like a devil, he doubted that Athos would stand much of a chance.

"Then pass the cognac," Athos said. "If I am to go down, I want some heat in my veins."

oOo

The day wore on.

Aramis had earlier had the foresight to bring the semblance of a meal into the Sick Bay, and together with the cognac, they made a good fist of passing the time.

Athos was chewing on a piece of dried beef when he stopped and looked at Aramis.

"What?" Aramis said.

"I did not think we would die in a Sick Bay, when we are not even sick," Athos grunted, side glancing Aramis, the hint of a smile on his lips.

Aramis smiled.

"No-one is going to die," he replied.

"Well, I hope some of those idiots are," Athos responded.

Just then, they heard a heavy footstep outside, and froze.

Aramis moved to the bunk and stood in front of it, shielding Athos, as he lifted a wicked looking Turkish blade.

"That's a good look," he heard Athos mutter behind him.

"I thought so," Aramis replied, straightening his back.

The door handle slowly turned.

If Aramis had a pistol, now would be the time to shoot.

But he had no such fire power.

He braced himself as the door slowly swung open.

"As you were," the familiar gruff voice said.

Treville stood there, pistol in hand, and Porthos behind him.

Aramis nearly slid to the floor as the adrenaline flooded out of his system.

Athos lowered his weapon and laid back, exhausted.

"Captain," Aramis sighed.

oOo

Later, as they sat in the Sick Bay, Treville accepted a glass of cognac, while Porthos inspected the various weapons Aramis had gathered.

"I've had that fool of a Harbour Master dismissed," Treville growled.

"What of the vigilantes?" Aramis asked, as he helped Athos to his unsteady feet.

"What vigilantes?"

"The men on the bluff," Aramis replied, looked up at him.

"We saw no-one," Porthos answered, stuffing a slim dagger in his boot with a smile.

"Want to explain?" Treville said.

Aramis looked at Athos.

"Can we do that later?" he said. "We really need to get off this ship."

"Very well," Treville replied, looking at Athos. "Can you walk?"

"If it gets me off this damned ship, I can," Athos replied, as Porthos came to his side and took his arm. "And I have to retrieve my horse."

"You remember where he is?" Aramis asked.

"Of course," Athos responded, clearly puzzled by the question.

Treville stood, picking up the bottle of cognac.

Looking at it thoughtfully, he sighed. "I have the Captain's log. It details the ship's voyage thoroughly. It may be possible to retrace the journey and look for the original crew."

"It is a sobering thought," Athos said, "To think they may be out there, somewhere."

"Let's get off this damned ship," Treville replied, gruffly.

Moving to the steps, Aramis stopped.

"Wait," he said, as he picked up the doctor's journal from the desk and stuffed it carefully into his jacket. His pockets were already stuffed with various samples from the drawers.

Taking a look around, he crossed himself once more.

"Whoever you are, and wherever you are - thank you, my friend," he whispered, tapping the journal, now safely stored inside his jacket, next to his heart. "Your company and your expertise were very much appreciated. God Speed."

Following on behind his comrades, he turned once more and tipped his hat at the empty room.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	47. Brother Jerome

**47\. BROTHER JEROME**

 **Athos and Aramis:**

The two horses thundered into the clearing.

Athos leapt from his horse in uncharacteristic anger and quickly tied the reins to the low branch of a nearby tree as Aramis warily dismounted behind him.

Before Aramis could finish tying his own horse, Athos had crossed the clearing and pulled him around. Face only inches away, Athos grabbed the front of Aramis's coat and pushed him back bodily into his horse, which shifted nervously, snorting its own disapproval.

"You have tried my patience one too many times. I will have your commission!" Athos shouted in his face, all his normal controlled composure gone.

"Isn't this a little overreaction?" Aramis responded, his voice rising to match that of the angry man in front of him. Angry at being manhandled in such a way, he pushed Athos's hand away and removed his hat and dropped it onto the pommel of his horse, before running his hand over the animal's neck in an attempt to calm it.

But Athos was not done; his brother's facetious defiance only served to fuel his anger.

"You have compromised this mission!" Athos said angrily, pushing Aramis back and turning back to walk back to his horse.

"Athos," Aramis shouted after him, "You are mistaken!"

Athos whirled around angrily, his hand on the hilt of his sword; an action not missed by Aramis, who frowned and took a step back.

"I know what I saw! Your dalliances with serving wenches will be the death of us one day!"

"That is ridiculous!" Aramis responded, in exasperation. "Wait, you think I told her what we were about?!"

In response, Athos raised his hand and patted his jacket, while fixing Aramis with a deadly glare. The implication was that, whilst watching Aramis balancing a besotted serving girl on his knee, he had seen him alluding to the letters that were in his inside pocket, no doubt in an attempt to impress her. As, what Athos saw was the consequence of that action, their mission to deliver the letters to the King had been interrupted by a band of five brigands who had followed them from the roadside inn where they had spent the previous evening.

"I was merely alluding to my beating heart," Aramis replied, the smile of his lips only inflaming Athos's anger.

Before he knew what had happened, Athos had delivered a punch that put him on his backside.

"I will see you back at the Garrison. This is not over, Aramis," Athos pointed at Aramis, still on the ground, before backing away and untying his horse.

He rode away without looking back, as Aramis stared after him.

oOo

It was late afternoon when Aramis thundered into the white-walled monastery just outside Evreux.

He was met by a group of monks, but one stood out. A tall, thin man with white hair that had been brushed back. He had warm, amber eyes, which betrayed the original colour of his hair and he stepped forward readily to greet Aramis.

Aramis slid from his horse, steadying himself with his hand on the bridle, as the man reached forward and took his elbow.

"You need sanctuary, friend?" the man said, his voice deep and warm, and Aramis sank into his support.

"Yes, brother. I am Aramis of the King's Musketeers. Am I the first to arrive?"

With that, he promptly collapsed.

The tall monk waved his fellows forward,

"Infirmary, brothers, if you please," he said.

oOo

When Aramis opened his eyes, it was still light.

The monk he had met briefly outside was standing over him.

"You have a bruised shoulder, friend, but it is not dislocated. Other than that, you appear to be exhausted."

Aramis suddenly pulled himself up, grimacing at the shot of pain that radiated from his shoulder.

"Be still, you will aggravate your injury," the man said, kindly.

"Is Athos here?" Aramis gasped, trying to regain his breath.

"Athos? No. We have only had the pleasure of your company this day."

"Where is he?" Aramis muttered to himself.

"I am Brother Jerome," the monk said, pulling up a chair. "Would you like to tell me what is going on?"

"Where am I?" Aramis said, ignoring the question.

"You are in our Infirmary. Do I take it we can expect more Musketeers?"

Aramis sighed.

"Only one, God willing," he replied. "But he is overdue."

"Then we shall wait for him. In the meantime, rest and I will find you some food."

On the face of it, it was not a bad offer.

oOo

Brother Jerome was as good as his word. He provided Aramis with a tray of good home-made food, though he had difficulty eating whilst worrying about Athos. After his tray had been collected, the monk brought a salve that he spread into Aramis's now bruised shoulder, and worked it into the flesh, moving the limb carefully around to help to ease any stiffness that was settling into the muscle.

Aramis laid down, as bid by the good brother, only to lie looking at the ceiling.

"Where are you?" he whispered.

Early evening saw him standing outside, staring up at the sky, which was darkening quickly.

Brother Jerome stood beside him.

"This man is a friend." he said. It was not a question.

Aramis turned.

"He is my friend and my brother," he smiled.

"Does he carry something important?"

"Something vital," Aramis replied.

"Then God will be by his side," the monk replied, softly.

"Don't tell him that," Aramis laughed. "He and God are not exactly on speaking terms."

"God chooses his words carefully. But he sees," Brother Jerome replied.

Before Aramis could reply, the sound of thundering hooves came to them.

Aramis and Brother Jermone ran to the gates, in time to see the black stallion appear through the gloom and run straight at the gates.

Jumping aside as the horse swept past them, both men ran back in its wake and caught up as the horse came to an abrupt stop, before shifting its hooves nervously left and right.

Athos was bent over the horse's mane, one hand tangled in the hair, the other around the leather reins.

Aramis grabbed the bridle and brought the nervous animal to a standstill.

The sudden lack of motion was enough to send Athos slipping from the saddle. By now, several monks hand been alerted and had run to aid Brother Jerome, who was bearing most of Athos's weight as he lowered him to the ground.

Aramis grabbed his friend's shoulders, ensuring his head would not hit the ground. It was then that he saw that Athos was covered in blood, and was by now, unconscious.

"So this is Athos?" Brother Jerome said as he straightened up.

oOo

Athos was carried into the Infirmary and placed on a wooden table.

Brother Jerome at his side, Aramis stripped Athos of his leathers, to find a musket wound in his side, with an exit wound and one in his thigh, without.

"Damn," Aramis said, before glancing at the monk at his side.

"Sorry," he muttered, as the man sent for water.

"Damn away," Brother Jerome said quietly as he searched cupboards for bandages.

"I have some experience with musket injuries," Aramis said, as he peered closely at the wound in Athos's thigh.

"As do I," the monk replied, to Aramis's surprise. "Though after-care is also my forte."

"Very well," Aramis said, as the water arrived. "That's good," he added as he began to gather the instruments that Brother Jerome was laying out.

"We work together," he added as the monk began to light candles.

oOo

Work together they did, well into the night.

The musket ball was extracted and Brother Jerome brought a small jar from a nearby cupboard which he opened as Aramis stitched. It smelled of horse chestnut, as the monk smeared in onto the stitches.

"What is it?" Aramis asked, as he tied off the last stitch.

"My own recipe. Well tested, do not worry. I will tell you all when he is out of danger."

Athos was moved to a nearby bed and wrapped in blankets, and Brother Jerome quietly pulled Aramis to the bed next to his to rest. Aramis turned on his side so that he could watch Athos, who had not moved during the whole ordeal.

Sometime later, he closed his eyes.

oOo

When he opened them, it was to see Brother Jerome bent over Athos in the candlelight,.

"What is it?" he said quickly, throwing the covers off.

"Its alright now," the man said. "He gave me cause for concern, but it is passed."

Brother Jerome had rewrapped Athos's leg and a large pad of linen lay on his side.

"I have made a paste and applied it to both wounds. He is a little warm, but I believe the paste will help."

"What is it?" Aramis asked, aware he had asked that question before.

Brother Jerome smiled as he covered Athos with a sheet.

"I will tell you later."

Aramis did not lay down again that night.

Athos succumbed to a fever, and the monk and Aramis worked together through the hours to bring it down.

"I thought you said your paste would help," Aramis ground out as he ran a cold cloth over Athos's face and throat.

"It has," the monk replied, simply. "Without it, I fear we may have lost him."

"I am sorry," Aramis replied.

"You are not the first to doubt," the brother replied, patting him on the shoulder.

"I believe in salves, Brother," Aramis replied, "but I don't know what you are using."

"You will. Later," the monk replied.

Sometime around dawn, Athos settled.

Aramis had been watching him for the past few hours and saw the moment that the crisis passed. He rubbed his hand over his face. He was exhausted, but he could not put off his duty any longer.

"I need to go" Aramis whispered, bending over his friend and moving the hair from Athos's brow.

"I don't want to leave you, but I must complete our mission, brother."

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see the kind eyes of Brother Jerome.

"The sooner you go, the sooner you can return," he said.

Aramis pulled himself up.

He had retrieved the letters from the secret compartment Athos had had made in his saddle. They could be searched, their horses could be searched and their saddles removed. But the seaming along the edge of Athos's saddle was a ruse. Fingers run under the edge would find an opening which would normally be empty, unless a highly secret document needed to be transported. A small flap within concealed the opening, which was completely undetectable when closed.

With his thoughts still troubled as to Athos's health, he reluctantly mounted his horse and accepted the provisions Brother Jerome pressed upon him.

"God Speed, brother Aramis," the monk said. "He is in good hands."

"I will return with a physician," Aramis replied.

"As you wish," Brother Jerome relied. "I will look forward to speaking to a man of such learning."

With that, Aramis had spurred his horse and left his sick brother behind.

oOo

Some days later, Aramis rode once more into the monastery courtyard, accompanied by Dr Lemay. Pulling his horse up, he allowed two brothers who hurried forward to take the animals to their stables, before rushing to the infirmary, where he had left Athos; the good doctor in his wake.

There was no-one around. He suspected some of the brothers were at prayers or other duties within the walls but he knew the way and he practically ran to the familiar door.

Pushing it open he stood staring at the empty room.

The bed he had briefly occupied was neatly made. As was the one he had left Athos in.

Turning, he bid Lemay wait and he ran out, back along the corridor; looking for someone to ask.

Finding a single monk coming out of a room ahead of him he quickly seized the startled man by the arm.

"The Musketeer," he gasped, breathless, "who was in the infirmary – where is he?" he asked urgently.

The man nodded and drew Aramis outside and around the building, before pointing toward a door in the wall across a small courtyard.

Aramis thanked him absent-mindedly and made his way to the door, taking hold of the metal handle and pushing it open.

Beyond was a small enclosed plot, shaded by two large trees. As his eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine, Aramis scanned the scene before him.

His blood ran cold.

It was a cemetery.

Aramis gasped when his eyes fell on a single new wooden cross on a newly turned grave under a large ash tree in the corner of the small graveyard. He took an involuntary step back, his breath suddenly leaving his lungs completely.

Before he could utter a cry, he stumbled up against someone at his back.

Arms steadied him.

"I heard you had returned," the familiar voice of Brother Jerome said in his ear.

He looked behind him at the monk, who was sadly staring over at the cross.

"Brother Simon" he murmured. "He lived a good life, a long life; God preserve his soul."

Aramis nearly sank to his knees.

"This way," Brother Jerome said, indicating the path to the left, unaware of what had just happened.

He opened another wooden door in the wall.

It opened on to a lovely walled garden with gravel paths. The smell of a variety of flowers assailed Aramis, but he was still shocked and confused until Brother Jerome pointed to the covered cloister that ran the length of the opposite wall, previously part of the monastery, but now belonging to the garden.

There, sitting under cover, with his leg propped on a bench and his face turned to the sun, was Athos.

Brother Jerome patted him on the shoulder.

"See? We have taken good care of Brother Athos," he laughed.

"He looks well," Aramis breathed quietly.

"We have many remedies here Aramis. I will show you before you leave."

"I would like that," Aramis said, eyes still on an unsuspecting Athos.

He took a step forward, aided by a small push on his back by Brother Jerome.

The last time he had seen Athos, he had feared for his life. Even now, Dr Lemay waited in the monastery Infirmary for word of his condition.

The crunch of gravel alerted Athos, who opened his eyes and tilted his head forward as Aramis approached.

Both men took each other in, smiles playing on their lips.

Aramis took a deep breath and let it out with a laugh.

"It is good to see you, Athos," he said quietly. "I feared I would not."

"And you, my friend," Athos murmured. "Brother Jerome told me you were injured?"

Aramis flexed his shoulder. "Only slightly. It did not impede me. More tired than anything."

He flopped down onto the bench next to Athos.

"Only one of our bandits followed me," he said brightly. "I despatched him just outside Rouen."

"And the other two came after me," Athos replied. He side-glanced his friend. "It was a lucky shot."

"Two lucky shots, I think," Aramis snorted.

"I remember seeing you ..." Athos said then.

"I arrived first. You came in much later, around midnight. I had almost given up hope."

"You never had much patience," Athos said.

"I thought you may have gone to another monastery," Aramis laughed.

"Is there another one?"

"There is. But it is some distance away and although we did not have much time to confer as to our meeting point, this is the only one with a red roof."

"So they believed our argument?"

"It was very believable," Aramis replied, closing his eyes and turning his face to the sun. "You were very convincing," he added, rubbing his jaw.

"I thought so."

"Remind me not to cross you."

Athos huffed. "You have always known that."

They had exchanged the letters between them several times during the mission, but their argument would confuse any brigand into believing that Aramis held them. Athos departure in anger, fuelling the confusion. It would undoubtedly cause any group to split up and give each Musketeer a chance to despatch them.

Injuries aside, it had worked.

Aramis regretted drawing the Brothers into possible danger, but by the time he and Athos had arrived, their assailants were dead, the danger had passed and the letters were secure. It only remained to get them to Paris, which Aramis had undertaken to do. Had Athos had a say, it may have been different, but he did not.

"Dr Lemay is in the Infirmary, waiting upon you," Aramis said.

"His services are not required. Brother Jerome is a very effective physician."

"And have you been a compliant patient?"

"You will have to ask him," Athos replied.

He remembered Brother Jerome's voice. His assurances; labouring into the night. Wrapping and rewrapping his leg, the more severe of his wounds. Accepting his bad humour. In the end, they had become friends. He had spent the last few days sitting in the cloisters in Brother Jerome's company.

"An army takes many different people with it when it moves," the monk had said, during one conversation. "They are not all soldiers. You know that, of course. Some are volunteers, some are required to go. I was one of the latter, but I will not follow another army into battle."

Athos had asked no questions. He had suspected the monk was more than he seemed, but who was he to probe? Everyone had their secrets. It seemed the man had found peace here, and that was not to be discounted.

oOo

Now, as Aramis helped Athos back into the Brother's infirmary, he was relieved that they had made the right decision. Athos had been almost past help by the time he had finally ridden into the monastery. Aramis had received food and treatment which had enabled him to continue their mission.

Lemay waited patiently in the infirmary, looking around with interest. He looked up as Aramis pushed open the door, with Athos at his side. Both helped Athos to a nearby bed, where he sank gratefully down.

"How are you, Athos?" Lemay enquired. "I am glad to see you ambulatory."

"After a fashion," Athos grunted. "But thank you, I have been well looked after."

Athos looked at Brother Jerome, who had followed behind.

"We have spoken of your treatment," Lemay said, smiling at the monk. "I sounds most acceptable, but I would be negligent in my duty to the King if I did not examine your injuries myself."

Athos suppressed a sigh. Lemay was doing his duty, but he was also a caring and curious man. No doubt he had a professional interest in seeing what treatment Brother Jerome had given.

"Of course," he said, allowing himself to be subjected to a very thorough examination.

oOo

Later, on waking from a short sleep, Athos rose and made his way slowly out of the door.

Hearing voices, he walked with some difficulty down the short corridor, leaning heavily on a stout wooden staff given to him by one of the monks.

The door ahead was slightly ajar and he pushed it open, leaning on the door frame.

Inside, behind a large wooden table was Brother Jerome, Aramis and Dr Lemay. On the table were bundles of different plants and small bowls of different powders. Brother Jerome was pummelling something in a bowl with a short, thick stick, while explaining the different plants that could be found in the monastery garden. Lemay was picking up different bundles of flora and sniffing them. Aramis was tasting various leaves and dipping his finger in some of the powders, before putting his finger in his mouth and tasting them.

Athos smiled.

Three learned men, lost in their interest.

He owed all of them a debt, for they had all aided him.

He did not know what Brother Jerome had used to save his leg, and to treat the wound in his side, but whatever it was, it had worked.

They were not aware of him, standing there, watching them and he did not disturb them.

Beyond this threshold was a different world to the one he knew.

Whatever drove these men to seek enlightenment in order to help others, he did not know, but he understood that these three men, from very different worlds, were helping each other at this moment and that could only be beneficial.

And besides, they seemed to be enjoying themselves, and who was he to interrupt that?

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	48. I Know You

**A/N:** Thank you for continuing to read and review these stories. I am away again for the latter part of next week, so I leave you with a brief little indulgence. I was feeling soppy.

This is for **Helensg** and **Mountain Cat** , probably as soppy as me, I think.

oOo

 **48\. I KNOW YOU**

 _I know your eyes ..._

I've looked into them a thousand times.

I've seen their depths; someone could drown there.

I've heard the words those eyes convey; felt their sharp edge as they slice through any silence.

No need to speak, Athos, with eyes like those.

And yet, so eloquent when you let us hear your voice …

Sometimes, a single conjugated verb, wielded like the finest sword, that can still a room;

An army.

Sometimes, an outpouring; carefully crafted, to suit your purpose, that can still a heart and take your breath.

I've heard those spoken words.

I would hear them now, if you please, mon ami.

 _I know your brow …_

Another way to master us.

To command and conquer.

The merest lift, enough to rebuke, to question or to challenge.

How can we argue against the imperious rise of your brow, my friend?

 _I know your mouth …_

The undercurrent of a smile,

that sometimes hovers at the corner of your lips.

I know the elation we feel when we are the cause of such a momentous display!

 _How well I know your face, brother._

So open your eyes and come back to us now.

Speak once more. Smile, if you will,

or let us see your fiercest glare.

We would even take your darkest frown.

For at this moment, you are a stranger,

And that is hard to bear.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	49. I Know Why

Just time for another short one before I slope of for a break.

Some of you have asked for the backstory for Chapter 48: "I Know You," so I will write that when I get back. (That will teach me, lol).

Anyway, moving along in the same vein …

oOo

 **49\. I KNOW WHY**

 _Idiot._

It had to be you makin' a "grand gesture," didn't it?

There were plenty of others there that could've saved 'er.

Had to be you, didn't it!

A Romantic Hero, leapin' over the wall an' challengin' 'er attackers.

Only, there wasn't just one, was there?

Three, Aramis.

Since when didn't you check before rushin' in?

 _Fool._

Now look at you.

'ead all bandaged 'an missin' this bright day.

You know you like days like this.

Blue skies, billowin' clouds like … how do you put it …?

"The softest undulations of the female form."

Well, somethin' like that.

Only, you're stuck in 'ere.

Wake up, you hear me?!

Had to be you.

Though …

The lad would have done the same, I suppose.

Always rushin' into things.

He's an idiot, like you.

And …

Athos

Full of duty and honour.

He'd 'ave been straight in there.

He'd 'ave known there were three of 'em though.

He'd 'ave made short work of all three.

Lucky I was there.

Think you probably beat me to it.

So …

How long you gonna lay there, hmm?

She's alright, by the way.

She came 'ere to ask after you.

Told 'er you'd be alright.

Told 'er you 'ad a hard 'ead.

Told 'er …

Told 'er it's not the first time you've done this.

Told 'er you were an id …

Well, she was grateful, anyway.

So that's somethin'.

Don't do this, Aramis.

Please don't do this.

It ain't fair.

You just 'ad to jump in.

But, I know you …

I know why.

An' I'm proud of you.

I really am.

Angry ...

But proud.

You're still an idiot.

But you're our idiot.

So, wake up, yeah?

Just, wake up.

oOo

 **A/N:**

Aww. Wake up, Aramis. You've upset Porthos.

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	50. I Know You (2): Diablo

So, for those who enquired, here is the backstory to Chapter 48, "I Know You"

In which Aramis struggles with a crisis of identity; although, _not his own_.

oOo

 **50\. DIABLO**

 **All of them:**

He was a large beast, taken from a Spanish scouting party on the border, though it was suspected that the man who rode him was not his first owner. Somewhere, another man mourned his loss, no doubt.

His name was Diablo.

Inevitably, in the short term at least, the black stallion had ended up in the Musketeer's Garrison stables, on his way to Louis XIII, who had been told about him and therefore coveted him. For this horse was a fine specimen of Spanish horse flesh and a prize indeed.

Louis, Athos thought, though a reasonably competent horseman, would not be able to handle Diablo for he suspected that this horse had been named Diablo for a _very_ good reason.

A horse named after The Devil needed to be understood and treated with patience and respect. Louis had neither the patience nor the respect for a finely-tuned Spanish stallion named for an angel fallen from Heaven.

Diablo no doubt would try what little patience the Monarch possessed, even on his best of days, beyond endurance; most probably within a week. Somewhere, his Iberian owner would be wondering his horse's fate, which would no doubt remain unknown to him. Here, in France, the stallion's lifespan would be short if he could not be settled into the mindset to the one his original master had obviously lovingly instilled into him; obedience, but with his spirit maintained. Highly strung, he was currently proving a handful in strange surroundings.

Aramis also coveted him, Athos knew, but this horse did not belong in a Musketeer regiment, they had both agreed. He needed to stand alone. Prized by a noble worthy of him.

Both Aramis and Athos had also agreed to attempt to ensure a worthy future for him, if at all possible. If that meant he entered Richelieu's own stables, to be brought out on State Occasions, his Eminence resplendent in shining breastplate and red ecclesiastical robes as was Richelieu's wont, then so be it.

A devil riding a devil was perhaps fitting.

Diablo stood seventeen hands high and gleamed like burnished black leather. His long mane was silken and hung in fine tendrils. If a stallion could be haughty, then that he was; a mixture of pride and distain. It would take a special stable hand to handle him in the interim.

And Jacques, competent as he was becoming, was not such a person. Unused to the differing smells, the horse was proving a handful. So, at this time, as Athos walked slowly into the stable block, he could see they had put a leather hood over the horse's head to partially block his sight and calm him. It seemed to have worked, for the horse stood placidly in a stall at the far end of the block, away from the other senior horses; an empty stall on either side of him.

Jacques was sitting, polishing some of the metalwork on the tack and he raised his head as the Lieutenant approached. Athos raised his hand to still him but Jacques still leapt to his feet, sending some of the bridles and stirrups to the floor with a clatter.

In the nearby stall, Diablo, with limited vision, raised his large head and snorted. He wore a bridle over the hood, the bit between his teeth in order that he could be handled and taken to the larger stable block at the rear of the Garrison, where more stable hands would later work to settle him in.

Athos stood still, indicating that Jacques do the same, but it was now Roger's turn to indicate his displeasure at being ignored by his master.

The sudden change in energy made the sight-challenged stallion skittish and he began to shift his feet.

Fearing this would escalate and Louis' prize would injure himself before the King could set eyes on him and, more importantly, whilst under the Musketeer care, Athos stepped forward and unlatched the gate of his stall. He waved Jacques forward before dipping his voice.

"Take the bridle gently. You to the left and I will take the right. Do not speak to him until his is reassured."

Making sure Roger was quiet, his fit of pique at being ignored now over, Athos quietly opened the stable gate and stepped inside.

Working together, Athos and Jacques took the horse's bridle and held the horse still. Diablo shook his head once and threw out a breath before sensing their calmness and sure handling. Athos reached up and gently stroked the horse's neck.

He had learned a few Spanish phrases from Aramis and so he whispered, "Paz" ( _Peace)_ and the horse became placid.

"You know that word?" Athos said quietly, "Then we will remember it," he added, looking over the stallion's nose at Jacques.

Jacques shyly nodded his agreement at Athos, who smiled back at him. A smile from the Lieutenant was a rare thing and Jacques thought he would burst with pride at that moment as they worked together.

Entering the stable, Aramis and Porthos witnessed their triumph and smiled.

And it was at that moment that a slew of rats burst from the straw beneath Diablo's hooves and all Hell broke loose.

oOo

Standing at the horse's shoulder was a dangerous place to be and, sure enough, the horse suddenly surged sideways.

Aramis shouted and Athos threw him a glance.

Aramis held up both arms, in front of his chest, in demonstration, fists curled inward. Athos understood and did the same as the horse moved once more toward him. His arms braced now in front of his chest and against the horse's side, his chest caged within, it saved him from serious injury, but also pushed him into the dividing timbers of the next stall, effectively trapping him.

Porthos moved quickly into the adjacent vacant stall and began pulling the timbers out of their brackets, thereby lowering the wall as an escape route for his friend.

In the meantime, Jacques clung perilously to the bridle and Athos finally was able to reach around the horse's head and push the boy out of the way. Jacques stumbled backwards and fell on his backside, out of range of the horse's hooves.

"Stay there!" Athos yelled, and Aramis grabbed the boy as he attempted to scramble back into the shadows; holding him still.

The horse lifted his head once more and made a sound of panic before shying sideways back toward Athos.

At the last minute, Porthos reached out and threw his arm around Athos's chest to pull him backwards over the lowered partition, but as he did, the horse swung its head around and caught Athos in the face, snapping his head back into Porthos and splitting the big man's lip. Porthos hung on. He did not release his hold, as Athos cannoned back into him and they both fell backwards in a heap onto the pile of straw in the next stable.

Aramis deposited Jacques on a pile of hard-packed straw behind him and closed the gate firmly on the struggling horse, before rushing to the next stall.

"Porthos!" he shouted, as he threw open the gate.

"M'alright," Porthos grunted, spitting blood into the straw next to him. "See to Athos!"

Porthos was still holding Athos tight around his chest, but even so, he was slipping sideways. Blood was pouring from Athos's nose, soaking into his shirt. Aramis pulled out a linen handkerchief and clamped it to Athos's face to stem the flow, keeping his head forward, as he feared the amount would flow down his throat and choke him.

Athos's arms had dropped to his sides and he was limp.

Porthos gripped him harder.

"Aramis? What's wrong!" he demanded, still stunned from the collision of heads.

"His nose is broken," Aramis replied, "Beyond that, I don't know."

By now, feet were thundering into the stables as their comrades came running to help; d'Artagnan among them, pushing his way through to reach his brothers.

"d'Artagnan," Porthos grunted, and the young man dragged his eyes from Athos to Porthos, taking in the blood running into his beard from his damaged lip.

"Take the horse out of 'ere. It's too much for 'im."

d'Artagnan nodded, realising he was more use doing as Porthos asked, and let himself into the stallion's stall. He could do that, he thought, shocked by what was happening around him. He was good with horses. He could do that.

He gently loosened the bridle and took hold of the hood that covered the horse's eyes, pulling it off and looking up into liquid brown eyes, surrounded by stark white, as the horse rolled his eyes in panic.

"Shhhhh," he whispered, tightening the bridle once more, as his arm was yanked by the sudden toss of the stallion's head.

" _Paz_ …."

Jacques voice came from behind him, calling to d'Artagnan, who turned his head and sought him out with a frown.

"Paz," Jacques stuttered under d'Artagnan's gaze. "It's Spanish. It means "peace." Athos used it. It seemed to calm him."

d'Artagnan nodded, before turning back to the horse.

He gently let the word slip from his lips.

" _Paz_ , _Diablo."_

The effect was immediate. It was obviously an instruction that had been given to him in his previous life.

d'Artagnan moved the horse slowly out of its stall and led the him through the throng of men now milling around staring into the stable, where Aramis was bent over Porthos and Athos.

"I need help here!" Aramis shouted, as several men moved forward, while two rushed to the Infirmary to make preparations.

oOo

In the Infirmary, after Aramis had cleaned Athos up and examined his limbs for broken bones, there was not much they could do. Apart from his facial injuries, Athos had otherwise escaped serious injury, save for a broken bone in his foot, no doubt from the horse's wild hooves.

However, his features were becoming distorted by the swelling at the bridge of his broken nose and there was a lump on his forehead the size of a goose's egg. Black bruises were appearing beneath his eyes.

Porthos sat holding a cloth to his own lip, ruminating about how Athos may have snapped his own neck if he had not hit Porthos in the mouth.

"His brain sure got a rattlin'" he growled, watching Aramis place a cold wet cloth on their friend's forehead.

"He just needs to wake up," Aramis murmured to himself.

But he was worried.

If, _when,_ he woke, would Athos know where he was? Would he remember what had happened to him?

The lump on his forehead had hardly receded and the bruises beneath his eyes had only darkened.

When d'Artagnan had first set eyes on him, later in the day, after taking Diablo to the land at the back of the Garrison and the larger block of stables that served the regiment, he had taken a step back as the face he knew so well had been so swollen he was hardly recognisable. But copious amounts of cold water and clothes laid over his forehead had helped to keep further swelling at bay somewhat.

Jacques stayed uncertainly in the infirmary doorway, watching. When he realised he had been seen, he took a step back and then turned and fled.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look and then Porthos heaved himself to his feet, dabbing his lip one last time before discarding the cloth on a nearby table.

"Leave 'im to me," he muttered and headed off in the direction the boy had taken, no doubt back to the stables.

Porthos did not go there himself though, but veered to the kitchens for a word with Serge, for the boy had spent his first few months in the kitchens with the old veteran before moving to the stables and if anyone could talk him around, it would be Serge.

When appraised of the boy's situation, Serge nodded and patted Porthos on the arm before lumbering off to find the boy.

Later, someone said they had seen the two, heads bent together at a table in the courtyard, and that the boy was nodding, as Serge held a fatherly arm around him.

oOo

In the Infirmary, Aramis worried and waited.

Athos was still, although it was not always possible to tell whether he was aware of his surroundings in such circumstances.

When he woke from illness or injury, he would often take his time opening his eyes. Until he was sure he had his wits about him and would not say anything he may later regret, either in anger or through emotion.

Athos chose his words like a lady chose her silks and satins; carefully, with the end goal in mind.

Now, as Aramis stared at his face, the dark bruises beneath his eyes black as a raven's wing, and the lump on his forehead, he wondered if he would hear his voice or see those familiar eyes again.

"The lump is a good sign at least," he told Porthos. "Sometimes, the lump can go inward and that means swelling inside the head. There's nothing I can do for that."

So they continued to use cold compresses; their only weapon. Plus warm chicken broth, which Athos took even though senseless.

In the end, as in all these sorts of injuries, it was a question of waiting.

"He is a stranger," Aramis said, two days later, in despair.

"He's still Athos," Porthos answered, watching Aramis warily.

"Where?" Aramis said angrily. "Where is he? Show me!"

"Hey, hey," Porthos said, pulling Aramis into a hug. "What's wrong with you?"

"I can't help him," Aramis said, deflating.

"You are helpin' him."

"How?"

"By bein' here. Look, I'm goin' to see if Jacques is alright. You stay here. Talk to 'im."

Once on his own, Aramis calmed a little.

His eyes swept over Athos's face. He was conflicted by the sight, which was a strange feeling.

He needed to see his eyes, see his smile; even a glare to assure him that this was not a stranger. That Athos was there, somewhere.

But he could think of nothing to say.

oOo

Later, in Treville's office, they discussed what to do with the horse.

"We do nothing," Treville said, finally. "The King need not know. These things happen. And if what you think is right, it will be the Cardinal who ultimately takes possession of Diablo."

Aramis nodded. Rats were not uncommon. It was not aggression on the horse's part. In fact, Jacques said the horse had responded well to Athos and himself just before the incident.

"Paz," Treville said, when told of the effect the word had had on the horse. "We must remember to tell the Cardinal."

"Must we?" Aramis said.

"In all honour, yes, we must," the Captain replied, though there was the hint of a smile on his face.

"d'Artagnan and I will deliver the horse to the Palace in the morning," Treville said, standing, "and then we can put this behind us and concentrate on Athos's recovery."

They all fell silent then. Porthos glanced at Aramis, sure that his friend was struggling to believe that Athos would recover.

oOo

"You know what it's like with Athos," Aramis said later, trying once more to explain how he felt to Porthos. "You know he's in the room before you see him," Aramis said.

"Yeah, he 'as that way about 'im," Porthos agreed.

"But it's still him," d'Artagnan said, looking at them both.

"But I don't _feel_ him. It's like he's not here," Aramis replied. "And … I don't know how to bring him back."

"Maybe he 'as to find 'is own way," Porthos murmured.

"I know him," Aramis persisted, running an anxious hand through his hair. "This isn't him."

"You're not makin' sense," Porthos said in frustration, as d'Artagnan chewed a thumbnail.

Aramis sighed.

"I know I'm not."

"He just looks … different," d'Artagnan said.

"Yes," Aramis said softly. "Maybe that's it," he added, wanting to bring the discussion on his confusion to a close.

"He'll come back soon," Porthos responded.

"I hope so," Aramis muttered, feeling a little desolate. "This is unbearable."

Despite d'Artagnan's initial shock at seeing Athos's face transformed by swelling and bruises, he had quickly accepted it. Porthos too, went about the business of caring, barely noticing the transformation.

Aramis though, found he could not look at his friend.

"It's still him. He's there," Porthos said, echoing d'Artagnan's earlier words.

"You're right, of course. But it's like, I know him, but I don't know him."

Aramis looked down then, taking in the unconscious man.

"You miss him, is all," Porthos said gently.

Aramis looked up at Porthos.

"I do," he whispered.

Porthos clapped him on the shoulder.

"He's right there. Tell 'im."

Porthos nodded at d'Artagnan and they both left, leaving Aramis alone with Athos.

Sighing, he reached for his hand.

"I know this hand," he whispered, turning it over in his own, tracing the thick skin at the base of his thumb.

Aramis finally let his eyes settle fully on Athos's face.

Gradually, he took in the bruises and the swollen flesh that obscured the bridge of his broken nose.

"You look like a pugilist," he huffed, sadly.

" _Tell 'im."_ Porthos's words came back to him. And he found his voice.

" _I know your eyes ..."_

Aramis poured his heard out as he took in his brother's features. He quietly beseeched. He bargained. A frown, a glare. He told him he would take anything … but the man before him was an empty vessel. A stranger. And he wanted his infuriating, sarcastic, ill-tempered, lost, sad, self-deprecating, _kind,_ loyal, honourable, strong, clever, skilled brother to just come back to them.

To him.

He turned his hand over once more, raised it to his lips and kissed the base of his fingers.

oOo

"I have seen bones splinter and pierce the brain when the nose is broken."

"Do you see evidence of that?" Porthos asked as he continued to try and prize Aramis from his gloom.

"How do I know?! I don't know what's going on in his head/"

"No change there then," Porthos grunted, though there was no humour in it.

"How can you be so calm, damn it?!" Aramis turned on him.

"It's Athos," Porthos shrugged. "Where's your faith?"

Porthos sighed and picked up a cloth. He slowly folded it over a few times and placed it gently over Athos's eyes. Straightening, he turned to Aramis.

"There," he said gently, "Look at 'im now."

Aramis looked.

"Looks like 'e does when he's 'ad a few too many."

And he did. No bruises or broken nose in sight.

Aramis stared.

 _There he was._

 _I know you._

"Am I so shallow?" he whispered.

"Nah," Porthos shook his head, pulling him into a hug. "You got yourself a bit lost. You'd just got used to 'is ugly mug. This is just a temporary version. The ugly version will be back soon."

Aramis stared at him, and then started to smile. Before quickly sobering.

"He may still die, Porthos."

" _Aramis_ ," Porthos growled.

Just then, d'Artagnan suddenly stood up, his chair scraping across the flagstones.

A familiar voice floated across the room.

" _Death by Andalucian stallion_ " sounds so much more heroic than " _death by broken nose_." I would never live it down."

Three pairs of eyes alighted on him, before Porthos started to laugh.

"How long 'ave you been listenin'?"

"Just since the part about bones piercing brains," Athos replied with a grimace.

"Never gonna happen. Your skull's too thick for that," Prothos laughed.

"Thank you for that vote of confidence, but right now there is a blacksmith in my skull and I am seeing two of each of you. How does a man get some peace around here?"

"Very easily," Aramis said fondly. "Welcome back, brother." he added. "I thought you might die."

"You know me," Athos replied, holding his gaze.

"Indeed I do. And thanks to Porthos, I know myself a little better now."

oOo

Later, as Aramis was tightly rewrapping Athos's foot, a shadow crossed the doorway once more.

Athos raised his head and called out, before the shadow could scurry away.

"Jacques, come here boy,"

Hesitantly, the boy crept forward, keeping his eyes down.

"It was not your fault," Athos said quietly. "You are not responsible for every rat in the Garrison stables. Rats and straw will always be found together. And, as you see, I am alright. So go and rest, you look tired."

"That was kind," Aramis said, when the boy had gone, shoulders not so slumped as when he had crept in.

Athos raised an eyebrow in response at the suggestion that kindness was a vague notion that he struggled to deliver.

Aramis looked away and grinned.

Later:

"It's healing well," Aramis said, ducking his head and leaning in to gently prod Athos's forehead.

Athos pushed his hand aside and glared, the familiarity of both gestures amused and touched Aramis in equal measure.

"So, according to Porthos, I am now as ugly as I was before?" Athos continued, eyebrow raised.

Aramis coughed.

"You heard that? You know though, Athos, that there is only room for one devastatingly handsome Musketeer in Paris."

" _Just_ Paris?"

"Well, alright, in _France_. I accept the accolade."

Athos huffed out a laugh, "Don't ever change, Aramis."

"What word of Diablo?" Athos asked then, changing the subject.

Aramis grinned.

"Treville rode him right into the Palace courtyard, beneath the Cardinal's apartments. Made sure he saw him. He said he could almost see His Eminence salivating at his window."

"And he staked his claim?"

"He did," Aramis nodded. "But only after he allowed the King to think the horse was his. He knew Louis would tire of him, which he did, before his next banquet."

"So, the Cardinal won."

"As we both knew he would, mon ami."

"Good news. Whatever we think of Richelieu, he is a good horseman and appreciates a fine stallion. Diablo will be well cared for."

"He will indeed. There are more stable hands in the Royal Stables than people in the congregation at Notre Dame on High Days and Holidays. His Eminence plans a breeding programme," he whispered, conspiratorially, to which Athos raised an eyebrow.

"Does he? Well, if the horse had been gelded before, he may have been easier to manage."

"That he wasn't is ultimately to the Cardinal's advantage."

"Quite. He is a man who takes advantage where and when he can."

"Then let us drink to it," Aramis smiled, pouring them each a glass of wine.

"To Richelieu getting what he wants?"

"To his stables being filled with spirited black devils, the like of which he has never seen," Aramis smirked.

Their glasses clinked in the silence of the infirmary, the only other sound, their quiet laughter.

OOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

 **A/N:** One of my favourite paintings of Cardinal Richelieu is by Henri Paul Motte. It shows His Eminence at the Seige of La Rochelle, in both armour and ecclesiastical red robes. No doubt he had a fine black stallion standing by to whisk him away from the front when he had seen everything he needed to see.


	51. Heatwave

**51\. HEATWAVE**

"Have I been ill?"

"We all have. Paris is in the grip of a heatwave. Water is scarce. The rivers are polluted. The people are suffering.

"Don't you remember?"

"I remember nothing."

"You were the last of us to succumb."

He hardly recognised Aramis's voice.

Looking up at him, he hardly recognised the man.

He had lost weight. His hair was tied back, though some lank strands had escaped and hung loosely over his dull eyes. His hands shook.

The air was so heavy, it was difficult to breathe.

He was reminded of a time when he was underwater, trying to find the surface, his lungs straining; burning.

Athos tried to raise his head.

There was no linen on the beds. It seemed important, though he could not think why.

He appeared to have the only sheet, wrapped and twisted though it was around his waist.

d'Artagnan sat hunched over at the bottom of the bed. He had said nothing and Athos felt the first tendrils of fear curl in his gut.

"Where is everyone?" he ventured. "Why are there no sheets?"

d'Artagnan spoke now, his voice hollow.

"The women are dead. Madame Crecy is dead."

"No," he heard himself say at such shocking news. Though his throat was parched and as dry as dust, he owed them that.

"There is little water left. Disease is rife."

It was a simple explanation, but his heart lurched at the loss of such good, kind women, and d'Artagnan's almost emotionless response; had he seen so much that he was broken?

He pulled his eyes away and turned his head on the sweat-soaked pillow. Only one bed seemed to be occupied, at the far side of the room, though the patient was still and completely covered in a cloak.

The air was thick, the dense heat cloying and he was becoming aware of the stench from outside. He grabbed Aramis, who offered no resistance. What little strength he had he used to pull himself up, though the room spun and he slumped sideways. Finally, hands grasped him and held him still.

"Where is Porthos?!" he yelled, trying to twist out of their grasp; his throat burning and his eyes stinging.

Aramis held onto him tightly, though he had little strength of his own. Athos stared up into his once-vibrant face. His friend's eyes were red-rimmed but there were no tears there. There was nothing left to give. Paris and her people were parched dry. All was brittle around them.

"He is gone, Athos," Aramis whispered, turning to look at the shapeless form covered in the now-familiar blue cloak on the far cot. The blue was in such sharp contrast to the dry, stark husk of the room that it seemed to burn his eyes.

"No, no, no ..." Athos moaned as he twisted out of his friend's weak grasp, falling back onto the bed.

"Dear God, no," he groaned.

oOo

A hand gripped his. Too tight; his bones shifting under the skin, though he had no strength to pull away.

Perhaps he did not want to.

Moisture swam beneath his closed eyes. Unfair, when all of Paris was dry; its bountiful rivers dead with disease.

He pulled in air, his chest crackling with each effort.

He feared to open his eyes.

Feared what sight would greet him.

Aramis, worse now? The life sucked from him?

d'Artagnan? The boy had looked as if he had given up.

And Porthos.

His heart lurched as the image of the blue-shrouded form came back to him, taking his breath.

His face was wet now. Had he allowed himself that? He reached up to swipe at his eyes.

A hand caught his and held on; both of his hands now caught in a tight grip.

A sob escaped his lips and he was pulled into an embrace.

Caught in the firm hold, his hand reached up and curled in a linen shirt that smelled of sandalwood.

With all his strength, he pushed back and looked up.

And blinked.

What new torture was this?

Kind brown eyes held his gaze; frowning now in concern.

 _Porthos?_

"S'alright, we're here," the deep voice reverberated through him.

Athos still held him back as he look wildly around.

Aramis, standing next to d'Artagnan; both men looked tired, but were smiling.

He stared, uncomprehending ...

"Have I been ill?" he whispered; fear curling as the familiarity of his question came back to him, frozen in the space between them.

"We all have," Aramis replied, gently.

The reply made his blood run cold, and sent a shiver flashing through him.

He shied away from Aramis's outstretched hand.

"The heatwave?" Athos ventured.

He saw them all exchange a look.

"Heatwave?" Aramis said, "No, but you were taken with a high fever. We lost you for a while."

The words hung in the air. Air which he slowly realised was cool; a slight breeze drifting from the open shutters settled on his skin.

The heated, desolate image of Aramis and d'Artagnan sprang unbidden to his confused mind and he squeezed his eyes shut to dispel it.

"Sorry," Athos gasped, "Sorry," realising that he had been in the care of his friends, who had themselves been ill.

"Stop that," Porthos growled. "We looked after each other. Worked out alright."

Athos stared back up at Porthos.

"Well," Aramis said, "We have Porthos to thank. He did the most. Tired himself out.

"Got some sleep in-between," Porthos nodded at the cot in the corner; the blue cloak now folded neatly on the mattress.

Aramis clapped Porthos on the shoulder.

"Madame Crecy will be wanting a hand with the linen," he said. "I believe we worked our way through most of her supplies."

"I'll go!" d'Artagnan said, heading for the door, though not as nimbly as he might have.

"You go steady, now," Porthos called after him.

Looking back, he saw Athos still staring at him with those wide eyes of his.

"What?" he said, fondly, taking in the still-flushed face. Athos had really worried him, the last few days.

"Nothing," Athos replied, swallowing down a sudden obstruction in his throat. "It's good to see you, Porthos."

Porthos laughed. The sound warmed his heart.

"Good to see you, too, Athos," Porthos replied, softly; picking up the blue cloak. "I'll just shift this," he added, holding it to his chest.

"Yes," Athos said, staring at it. "Please do."

Porthos turned to go, unaware of the significance of his action.

"Are you hungry?" Aramis asked gently, and Athos tore his eyes from Porthos's retreating back; the sound of his heavy footsteps lifting his now-warmed heart.

Aramis looked tired, but his hair was freshly washed and his eyes were bright.

And he was waiting patiently for a reply; his head tilted on one side and an amused smile on his face.

"Yes," Athos smiled. How could he not?

"Yes, I believe I am."

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	52. I Know Why (2)

So, this is **Part Two of Chapter 49** and it's for **Deana** , who wanted Aramis to wake up. And for those of you who wanted to see what Porthos would do when he did.

Let's see...

 **52\. I Know Why (2)**

 **Aramis and Porthos:**

Finally.

 _Finally._

Porthos breathed out.

Aramis had opened his eyes.

It took several minutes of blinking and swallowing down whatever was making its presence felt.

Turning his head carefully to the other presence he felt, Aramis watched as Porthos swam unsteadily into view.

Aramis smiled weakly, relieved to see a familiar face, even though it had a thunderous expression that was obviously aimed at _him_ …?

Porthos took a deep breath and Aramis waited for kind words, a soft touch, maybe something to drink. That would be nice.

What he got was one word, ground out between clenched teeth;

" _Idiot."_

"That is your first word to me?" Aramis said, placing his hand over his heart in mock indignation; a smirk playing on his lips.

Porthos was not impressed. Not. One. Bit.

"Oh, it's not the first time I've said it," Porthos said quietly.

Porthos usually did not do quiet, and he was definitely _not_ finished;

"What do you want?!" he boomed, making Aramis wince. "Welcome back, Romantic Hero of the Marketplace? You Have Triumphed Once More?!"

Aramis pondered, a frown marring his bandaged brow.

"Well, perhaps not _quite_ that … though I like the Romantic Hero part."

"Those are your words, not mine. I was bein' sarcastic."

"You? Never. That is Athos's forte, surely."

"Oh, I 'ave my moments, believe me," Porthos growled.

"How long have I been out?" Aramis asked, wondering how long Porthos had had to stew.

"Three days," came the brusque reply.

That would do it.

Aramis grimaced as he shifted position and for a moment, Porthos faltered.

But then, the Hero spoke again and Porthos felt all concern drain quickly away.

" _Well, no-one else seemed inclined to assist her."_

Porthos slowly straightened his back and tilted his head.

"Say what?"

Aramis swallowed. Perhaps he had not quite remembered it as well as he thought, but he was committed now.

"You were all looking the other way," he quickly countered.

"Whereas you only 'ad eyes for the only woman who wasn't dressed in rags and makin' a livin' workin' behind a stall?!"

Aramis considered that, aware of a headache forming behind his eyes.

"She _did_ stand out, somewhat," he murmured, looking away; suddenly very interested in the window shutters.

"And did her three assailants "stand out" too?" Porthos growled loudly, seemingly getting into his stride.

"Three?" Aramis said, eyebrows shooting up into his bandage, before he feigned a look of innocence.

"Yeah. _Four_ , if you count the one that fled when he saw you fly over the wall, wavin' ya big guns."

Aramis looked quite pleased at that, the smirk reappeared and threatened to turn into a full blown self-satisfied grin.

"Did she see that?" he asked, innocent once more.

"You've perfected that look and it don't wash with us," Porthos hissed through a tight jaw; a skill Aramis often admired, though he favoured a more open-faced approach himself, when the situation arose.

"Where is Athos, anyway?" he asked, reminded of their fearless leader. And wanting to change the subject, which was beginning to make him squirm.

"He's pulled double guard duty, on account of us bein'..." Porthos leaned over menacingly, "One. Man. Down."

"Oh."

There would be a consequence there, he thought; suddenly wishing he was still unconscious.

"In my defence," he began, and Porthos could clearly see the cogs turning, "I acted on pure instinct."

Porthos sat back and folded his arms indulgently.

"Instinct, you say?"

" _Pure_ instinct," Aramis corrected smugly, not entirely endearing himself to his disgruntled friend.

Aramis reached up and pulled the bandage from his head. He twirled it flamboyantly a few times in the air and threw it towards Porthos, who ducked without thinking.

" _That,_ my dear Porthos, is pure instinct."

Aramis, Porthos noted, looked very pleased with himself.

Porthos bent and picked up the bandage and pointedly examined it.

He slowly stood and walked toward the bed. As he did so, he began to wrap the bandage between each of his very large hands.

Aramis eyes widened as the looming shadow fell over him.

"I always favoured a more thought-through approach," Porthos growled as he began to snap the taut bandage between his fists. "One with a degree of certainty."

Aramis swallowed.

"Can we talk about that, my friend?" he squeaked. "I think I could be persuaded?"

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	53. End Game

**53\. END GAME**

 **Summary:**

Athos met **The Spaniard** in Chapter 1 and again in **Reunio** **n** , in Chapter 37, when we learned his name was Morales. Here, he meets him one last time.

Will Athos finally get the better of his nemesis?

oOo

 _This chapter follows on directly from The Reunion..._

Athos quickened his pace as he strode from the Infirmary, head down.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned slowly.

Aramis and Porthos were some paces back but they stopped too; the three staring at each other.

No understanding passed between them this time, for whatever raw emotion was pouring from Athos, they could not interpret what had cut him so deeply that he would look at them that way.

There was no acceptance of their companionship to wherever Athos was heading.

Just a look that froze them to the spot and then one gloved hand slowly raised. One finger pointing at them; a barrier stronger than any fortress wall.

And then, a swift turn and he was gone.

"What the 'ell's goin' on," Porthos growled, remembering to breathe.

Aramis did not speak for a moment.

"I have no idea, but if we follow him, I have a feeling our friendship will be no more," he said quietly, turning to Porthos.

"And that, I do not want."

Reluctantly turning away, they both walked slowly back to the Garrison with heavy hearts, feeling as if the world had suddenly shifted, but they had not been privy as to why.

oOo

It was not a time to get lost in drink. Athos had to think and so he walked down to the river and sat under the bridge.

The city was asleep, save for a few roamers. The moon shone brightly above, tossing its pearlescent reflection across the gentle ripples of the water, black now and brooding; reflecting his dark mood. It was cold, but he did not feel it. What seeped into his bones was far more lethal than that.

Seeing Morales again had shaken him to the core. Any doubts he had harboured about the man since their first meeting had been banished tonight during their verbal battering.

Athos did not like to lose, but tonight, he had.

Admittedly, it had been a strategic withdrawal on his part, but however he looked at this, Morales had won. He had pushed him into a corner, from which Athos had no room to manoeuvre. Further, he had threatened everything Athos held dear.

Leaning his head back against the damp brickwork, he ran their encounter through his mind; every word etched on his brain. Every move and counter-move, and finally Morales' coup de grace;

" _Let us not speak of this encounter. It would serve no purpose for my former reputation to precede my discussions with your Captain and your King. The same goes for your friends. From what I have seen of them, they would most likely act on your behalf if my identity were to be discovered."_

And finally,

" _I have done nothing wrong, committed no crime, save serve my country! The only casualties would be your friends. And_ your _beloved country."_

Morales had a peace proposal for the King and any disruption to his delivery of it would in itself court disaster; for Louis knew of it and awaited his arrival at court in the morning.

For the first time since gaining his commission and becoming part of a brotherhood, Athos felt alone; torn between what he believed and what he suspected.

There was only one man he could turn to now.

Pushing himself up, he stared once more at the moon, before turning and making his way back through the empty streets to the Garrison.

oOo

 **The Garrison:**

"If you are wrong, Athos, this could create a diplomatic incident," Treville sighed, standing over his desk, arms braced over the papers he had been working on late into the night when Athos had knocked quietly on his door.

"I have nothing to offer you except what little I know of him and a gut feeling. It is not peace he seeks."

Treville held his gaze, before moving to his cupboard and taking out his last bottle of cognac. He had drunk more on these long nights lately, himself troubled by the arrival of the Spaniard seeking an audience with the King. It was arranged for later this new day, but he would hear what Athos had to say, before the sun came up.

"You know more than most," Treville said quietly, acknowledging the harm the Spaniard had done to his best soldier but unaware of the intricacies of their meeting earlier in the day. He could get nothing out of Aramis or Porthos, understanding they were concerned for their friend, but unwilling to voice it. He suspected they were equally ignorant of the reasons why Athos had taken himself off by himself; but he was not drunk. Indeed, there was a strange calmness to him and he had obviously spent several hours thrashing his thoughts into submission.

And so, over the bottle of cognac, Athos told his Captain of the conclusion to his ruminations.

The two fell into silence then and Athos carefully watched his Captain's face. If Treville disagreed, he had an idea what he would do but it would be the end of his career, for he would take matters into his own hands. Everything depended on the response of the hardened soldier now staring at him with steel grey eyes.

"Very well," Treville finally responded and Athos felt his muscles slacken, his heart slow and his breathing return slowly to near-normal.

"I will delay his audience with the King. I will make enquiries around the court and with our agents; and see if I can find out if the Spanish Ambassador has any particular leanings towards this proposed peace treaty that Morales carries on his behalf."

When Morales was told his audience would be delayed by several days, he was angry and Treville saw a different side to him. Suggesting an excellent boarding house where he could rest until the summons came, Treville ended his conversation and ensured he was kept under surveillance.

oOo

After several days, Treville sent word to Athos to come to the small house he owned behind the Rue Ferou, away from prying eyes.

Once there, he imparted the intelligence he had gathered.

"The Spanish Ambassador has no knowledge of the proposed treaty. Equally, Morales has no support. He had in fact, been dismissed. Too erratic. Too dangerous.

In his time, he has been their best interrogator. He has served Spain well, and they respect that. But along the way, something happened. He had lost focus. He had become distracted; introspective.

There was even talk of a Musketeer who, some say, had bettered him."

Treville smiled briefly at his last statement, as he poured wine into two cups. Athos caught his eye but did not respond; still lost in thought.

"There is more," Treville offered, leaning back and tapping the table with restless fingers.

"The brother of the man who was killed when they crossed the border into France has spoken to his mistress of his fears that it was Morales who killed him. She, in turn, is sister to one of the Queen's Spanish ladies in waiting."

Athos took a moment to process it.

"Court machinations continue to run deep."

"Everyone knows everyone Athos, you know that. And if they don't they make it their business to find someone who does."

Athos smiled, he had seen it in action when he accompanied his late father to court, but had only begun to get the measure of the depth of intrigue that could exists at a moment's notice.

"The seat of power is always attractive to those who would gain," he murmured.

"Yes, but that does not solve our current problem," Treville admitted.

"Morales is a high ranking officer, Athos, who has served his country well. We have no proof of his intentions. And Spain does not want a diplomatic incident, nor to be implicated if Morales is planning more than a peace between our countries."

"It is not peace he seeks!" Athos said, suddenly angry.

"I share your fears, believe me, Athos," Treville sighed. "The King's life may well be in danger, I have no doubt about it."

Athos was exasperated and stood up abruptly, needing to dispel some of the adrenaline that had begun to course through his veins. He had had personal experience of Morale's service to Spain. The man was intelligent, a skilled politician, and had depth that Athos had only seen the surface of. The last thing he wanted was to engage with him again, bearing in mind his threats against Aramis and Porthos. However, he was duty bound to his Monarchs and he had the benefit of trusting Treville completely.

"If we are wrong, no one would know," he finally said.

"But, if we are right," Treville countered, "The lives of the King and Queen of France depend on the response of the Musketeers."

oOo

Treville had doubled the King's Musketeer guard at the Palace. The time of his arrival was close and Athos broke away to survey the corridors leading to the King's chambers.

Rerouted last minute to another heavily guarded entrance, dignitaries were arriving with their own petitions. The King would be the last to enter, where he would be relatively safe amid the extra guards and number of vetted petitioners.

Up to that point, however, there were many places for an accomplished assassin to hide. Athos, hoping that Morales was ignorant of their discovery of his dismissal, intended to intercept the Spaniard before he reached the public chamber, for he may still come that way in light of having a granted genuine audience. The man's intentions could then be made clear.

Walking the length of the silent corridors, Athos tightened his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Glancing through the floor to ceiling windows, he could see Aramis and Porthos in the courtyard beyond the Reception room, checking the line of oncoming visitors.

The Red Guard lined the courtyard on all sides.

Athos's eyes flicked to the many windows overlooking the square, and he frowned at the task of finding one man. Especially a man such as Morales.

Hearing a noise behind him, he tensed.

"Impressive," the familiar low voice said quietly.

Athos slowly turned; and came face to face with Morales, who stood passively in front of him.

"Did you honestly think you could kill our King?" Athos said, as they stared at each other. "Did you really think it would be that easy?"

Morales sighed.

An ugly sneer suddenly curled his lip.

"Perhaps that is not my wish."

Athos frowned, narrowing his eyes.

"Explain."

"I have a very different option for your King," the Spaniard replied.

"We know of your plan from the Spanish Ambassador," Athos said calmly.

Morales laughed.

"The Spanish Ambassador only knows what I want him to know."

"Your King is not a threat to my country, _Athos_. It is Richelieu who is the threat."

"The Cardinal?" Athos replied.

"Of course," Morales murmured, tilting his head to stare at the Musketeer.

"He is France's strategist, with ambitions for France to become the rulers of Europe. He broke the Siege of la Rochelle, did he not? Louis is merely his puppet."

"Louis is a weak king with no heir," he continued. "Richelieu's ambitions to dominate Europe would die with him. In the interim, Louis would turn to his Spanish Queen and she would in turn seek her brother's support. Spain would ultimately rule. _My_ country would be the dominant force in Europe.

"You Musketeers, so focussed on your King," Morales tutted.

With that, he attacked.

oOo

Athos just had time to draw his main gauche as Morales came at him with a dagger.

Pushed back against an ornate door, it gave and they both almost fell through into the empty antechamber.

It was over in minutes, much to Athos's disgust.

The dagger sliced across Athos's hand and he twisted out of the way, but not before slashing Morales across his bicep, seeing the blade cut through the leather of his jacket with some satisfaction.

Morales, though, picked up a gold statuette and threw it at Athos, and it struck him in the shoulder, sending him to his knees.

By the time he had risen, Morales was gone, the door slammed and locked behind him.

Athos roared in frustration and ran at the door.

Bursting through, all he saw was a thin trail of blood.

oOo

Wrapping his scarf around his hand, Athos ran to the courtyard to find Aramis and Porthos.

"Tell Treville," he growled, as he pulled them aside;

"Morales is here; it is Richelieu he wants to kill."

Aramis and Porthos were both stunned as they had not been privy to Treville and Athos's fears.

"I have no time to explain, just tell Treville. And go to the Cardinal's apartments and keep him there!" he said, grabbing Porthos's arm.

"So we are going to save Richelieu's life?" Porthos grunted.

"Richelieu is France, Porthos," Athos said, calmer now in their presence. "Whether we like it or not."

"Where are you going?" Aramis hissed, aware of being overheard by the people waiting to enter the Reception room.

"To find Morales."

"Wait, we will come with you!" Aramis cried, knowing the man's capabilities.

But Athos held up his hand.

"Stay here and protect the King and his Eminence. He may still be here!"

"Athos," Porthos said warily, reaching out and grabbing his hand.

But Athos shook himself free and the anger returned once more.

"Morales is mine," he said, his voice charged, and Porthos took a step back, knowing when he had lost an argument.

"Do your duty," Athos yelled as he turned and ran from the courtyard and back to the corridor.

To follow a trail of blood.

oOo

It led to the stables of course. To the fine black stallion that Morales had arrived on. The stable boy pointed out the exit the man had taken, unaware of how dangerous the man who had pushed him aside was.

The streets around the Louvre were congested, making progress slow.

Athos was not far behind, but the man could have taken the bridge across the Seine and made his escape. He could be anywhere.

On a hunch, he made his way back to the rooms Morales had been occupying. There may be a clue to his onward journey somewhere in those rooms.

It seemed that Morales had not known they were aware of his duplicity, as the maid explained he had indeed presented himself shortly before, bleeding and angry; wanting his belongings.

"Are you the Musketeer Athos, sir?" she said from the doorway.

She came forward and looked around the room.

"Said he had an appointment at the Garrison, sir," she said.

"The Garrison?" Athos said, confused.

"Aye. With you, sir. Said you'd know why."

"Thank you," Athos murmured.

It seemed, they were not yet done.

He made his way cautiously to the Garrison, mostly empty now; the men on duty still at the Palace would not be making their way back for some hours.

Morale's horse stood abandoned in the street outside the Garrison gates. Athos carefully dismounted and took up its reins. He walked both horses through the archway, tying both animals to a post, before making his way around the inside perimeter.

All was quiet.

Including their two look-outs, who he found dead. One from a crossbow bolt and one from a knife wound to the throat.

Eyes flicking around him, Athos made his way to the kitchen, where he found Serge and his boy preparing food for their incoming men; oblivious to what had happened outside.

"Stay here, do not make a sound," he cautioned and Serge stared at him, taking his meaning and nodding; pointing for the boy to sit.

"Lock the door," Athos ordered, as he turned and headed back outside.

He peered up at Treville's office, but the man was still at the Palace.

He went to the stable next and told the two lads to lay low, and close and bar the wooden doors.

The laundry, thankfully, was closed; the woman having completed their morning's work. They would return later, but for now, the room was secured.

All other doors were locked, save for one.

The door to the Infirmary.

oOo

Pushing the door open, Athos unwound his scarf from his hand and dropped it to the floor. The cut was still sluggishly bleeding, but he would need the freedom of an unbound hand if he was to fight for his life in the next few moments.

For that would be the business of this morning, he had no doubt.

There was a faint trail of blood leading along the narrow corridor to the inner infirmary door, which he followed, stopping on the threshold to look cautiously inside.

Morales was standing in the middle of the room, flanked by a row of cots on each side.

Athos quickly weighed up the space in the room, position of the beds, cupboards, chairs and where the light played, before he took a step inside.

He quietly closed the door, his eyes never leaving the Spaniard.

"What are you doing here?" Athos asked quietly.

Morales raised cold black eyes, hooded beneath dark brows.

His arm was bleeding, but he paid no mind to it.

"I wanted a final word with you," the Spaniard finally said.

"What word would that be?"

A sly smile spread across the Spaniard's face. Athos was familiar with it.

"Despedida."

Athos frowned.

"I believe, you would say, " _Adieu_ ," Morales said, allowing the smile to fade, before turning away and removing his jacket; confident that Athos would not attack him until they were both ready.

"Although, I doubt it will be a _fond_ farewell."

"I would hope not," Athos murmured, watching him.

He felt strangely calm. This was territory he knew well. Sizing up an opponent, the quiet dance before the engagement; the careful study of stance and expression. Since his first meeting with this man, he had no doubt that this was to be the culmination of their relationship. He had seen enough and heard enough to know that this would be the final act in their play. Their end game.

"Uno de nosotros muere aqui," (" _One of us dies here_.") Morales said softly as he carefully folded his jacket, adjusted his lace cuffs and unsheathed the sword that was strapped to his hip.

Athos's fingers, resting lightly on the hilt of his own sword, closed around it and he slid the blade out of its scabbard. He whipped it deftly through the air a few times before walking to one of the empty cots across the room, unbuckling his weapon belt and jacket with his free hand and throwing them down on the bed.

He then turned and dropped the point of his sword to the floor.

"I expected something a little less predictable from you," he said quietly, "but I accept that what you say is probably true."

oOo

"I am glad we had the opportunity to meet again, Musketeer."

"You arranged it," Athos replied, simply.

"I did. I needed to see you were still here, and so I asked to be brought here when we were attacked on the border. I may not have seemed pleased to see you, but believe me, I was."

"You were not attacked, Morales. We know it was you who killed your companion. And you have failed in your plan."

"Perhaps with Richelieu, but there is no hurry. I have had time to observe him while waiting for an audience with the King. Thank you for that, by the way."

"You, however," he continued, circling around the infirmary like a black carrion crow, "are here, now."

Athos pushed his hair from his face. He had to end this man, he was a threat to his friends, to the very fabric of France.

He would do it alone. It was his right now. This man had plagued his dreams and his waking thoughts. He bore the scars, mentally and physically. The man in front of him was no more the skilled interrogator, but a mad man.

"Surely you owe your country nothing," Athos said. "They have abandoned you."

"Misunderstandings can be rectified," Morales said, carefully enunciating every word.

Athos shook his head.

"Killing Richelieu would put your country on a war footing. Perhaps that is what you want."

"It may be inevitable," Morales replied. "But as I said, with Richelieu out of the way, Louis would flounder; his Spanish whore would gain in influence. She would not wage war on her brother. Spain would triumph, either way."

Neither had seen each other fight but for the first time in this man's presence, Athos felt on an even keel. Whether this would be an honourable fight remained to be seen.

"We are both gentlemen," Morales responded, as if reading his thoughts, "Whatever you think of me. This is for Spain, Musketeer."

"And this is for France, Senor," Athos responded. "And for everything I hold dear," he added quietly.

oOo

Both men slowly began to carefully circle; eyes locked.

They briefly touch swords, before taking up position and suddenly, _the fight is on_.

At first, it is furious, both men driving each other forward down the length of the Infirmary, the room filled with the sound of clashing steel and boots drumming on the flagstones.

Athos, the younger of the two, jumping onto a cot to escape an onslaught and crossing to another.

Morales, then driven back and falling against a cupboard, his sword sweeping the contents onto the floor.

Athos hisses as Morales's blade slashes across his already-injured hand; nearly dropping his blade, before neatly transferring it to his left. Morales' sword dips to the floor and he gives an appreciative, though arrogant tilt of his head.

Morales strokes his beard as he circles; spinning his sword in slow circles.

Athos is aware of the Spaniard's damned boots on the flagstones, sending him back to memories of the dungeon, where they had filled his vision as blood ran into his eyes.

Athos breathes heavily, sweat on his forehead; tossing his head as he flings it aside.

A near miss, as the blade bites into the wooden post next to him; the cot creaking under the impact.

The sun is shining through the shutters, temporarily blinding him and he curses because he had judged the track of the sun, only to forget in the heat of battle.

Working around the room, he slams the shutter closed as he passes.

They both taunt each other, grunting and hissing as they tire.

The clash of steel on steel rings around the room and sparks fly.

Boots skid on flagstones, backs are stretched to ease aching muscles.

Thrust and parry. A dance to the death.

The flat of a blade against a thigh, the point splitting flesh, blood beginning to spray and drip and pool on the floor.

Morales, bleeding but the full sight of it masked by his black shirt. Athos in his ruined cream shirt, stained with red.

A hit to his face and Morales spits out a Spanish curse, raising his hand and pulling back bloody fingers.

A finger nearly lost in their next onslaught.

They circle.

A low laugh. "You can do better, I am sure, Musketeer."

"Less talk. Defend yourself"

"You have been well trained. But your classical discipline has a raw edge. Is that the influence of the common soldiers you now rub shoulders with?"

"We both have sought outside influences, Morales. I have taken on nothing I did not value and aspire to."

"Animal instincts are useful at times, I have found."

"I am sorry you will never know the best of men," Athos murmurs.

"I have only been interested in the worst. You know that."

"Fight, damn you!"

The pace increases, both men slashing, shifting, withdrawing, circling.

Athos goes down, skidding on a pool of blood and Morales is over him like The Reaper, only for Athos to roll aside and rise quickly, aided by grasping the end of a cot. Morales himself skids, and withdraws.

Both men move forward, reluctant to put themselves in such a position again.

They push each other to the end of the infirmary, where the door stands ajar. Morales slams into the wall beside the door as Athos comes in low, but the Spaniard grasps the edge of the door with his free hand and flings it open.

Both men are reaching their limits; exhausted and bleeding.

Equally matched in height and weight, they call on inner reserves; fuelled by hatred of each other and love of their countries.

Athos drives Morales forward, over the threshold and into the narrow corridor beyond.

Hurriedly brushing blood from his eyebrow that threatens to blind him, Athos spins the sword in his hand and crouches, going in low, stabbing Morales in the thigh. Reacting with a curse, Morales whips his blade sideways and catches Athos under the arm, hoping to immobilise him, but Athos hardly acknowledges it, driven now with a purpose, sensing the end of the fight as the walls close in around them and the light fades in the confines of the corridor.

Athos flicks his blade and takes off the point of Morales' beard.

"That is hardly the stroke of a gentleman," Morales hisses.

"Who said I was a gentleman," Athos murmurs, his voice cold and hard.

He raises his arm to hook under Morales' raised sword and twists hard.

Morales takes a step backward and his back collides with a vertical wooden beam that runs from ceiling to floor. However, he does not release his sword, raising his other arm and grabbing Athos by the throat. Athos keeps his left arm firmly rammed into Morales shoulder, preventing him bringing his sword down and presses forward into the hold on his throat, pulling his right arm back to give him room to line up his sword.

Suddenly -

"Athos! Stand Down!"

It is Treville, shouting from the outer doorway at the end of the corridor, as Athos and Morales fight their way through the narrow space from the inner door.

Athos ignores him.

Eyes locked on Morales, Athos pushes his sword slowly into the Spaniard's torso. It pushes through leather and slides through flesh and muscle before severing bone and finally striking the wooden beam behind him. Still it pushes forward until Morales is impaled, a look of sheer shock on his face. The buried sword holds him upright, his knees locked; his own sword slowly released now to ring sharply onto the floor.

"You were right," Morales hisses, black eyes glinting, teeth and lips red with blood.

"About what?" Athos grunts, hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, buried deep now.

The Spaniard merely smiles a bloody smile.

"About what?" Athos yells in his face, the vestiges of composure gone.

"Figure it out yourself," Morales whispers, a hideous final smile spreading across his lips but not reaching his eyes.

Athos holds his stare of horror, his own breath ragged as the grip on his throat releases; until the light began to dim in dark eyes that had seen more horror than Athos could imagine. Until the hated face goes slack.

He dies with his eyes still open and locked onto Athos, who remains where he is, sword held firmly in his hand, his body weight pressed forward and blood pounding in his ears.

He is barely aware of a presence beside him, as Aramis and Porthos come forward with Treville behind them.

Porthos reaches out to extract the blade, but Athos's grip tightens.

"Leave it," he says, in a voice more deadly than Porthos had ever heard from him, and he raises his hand in acquiescence.

"Here is my sword, Captain," Athos says, without taking his eyes from the dead man.

Treville, now motionless beside Aramis, takes in a shuddering breath.

"Why would I want your sword, Athos?" he replies, quietly, as all is now still.

"I disobeyed your order to stand down," Athos replies, still staring at Morales.

"I gave you no order," Treville responds. "These men can vouch for that," he adds, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his man's shoulder.

Treville takes a step back and turns to Aramis.

"Take care of this," he orders, before turning and striding back down the corridor, ordering the group of Musketeers that had gathered in the outer doorway back to work.

Athos's fingers would have to be prised from his sword, buried to the hilt in Morales.

Porthos gently pulled him back and Aramis stepped between him and the impaled body; eyeing him cautiously.

Gently, he released his friend's hand, finger by finger and pulled him away.

Porthos left Morales where he was, not wanting to touch the bastard and together, they walked Athos back into the infirmary, toward the nearest cot. Blood trailed after them.

"Why did you take your jacket off," Aramis chided softly, as he eased his friend's shirt over his head.

Athos was battered and bruised and Aramis counted over ten cuts over his hands, arms, shoulders, face, thighs and back. He would count the bruises later.

Porthos hissed when he saw the state he was in.

Athos looked down at himself, as if seeing himself for the first time.

"It seemed the sensible thing to do at the time," he sighed, suddenly feeling very tired.

Suddenly, he grabbed Aramis's wrist.

"Is he dead?" he asked, eyes wide.

Aramis frowned.

"Yes, my friend, very dead," he assured him.

oOo

Later, when he finally released Morales from his impalement, Porthos came striding back into the room, sitting down on the chair on the opposite side of the bed, where he watched as Aramis sewed up the deeper of the cuts, before leaning forward with a smile;

"Eighteen cuts," he said with some satisfaction.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

"Is that all?"

"It's enough," Aramis said, grimly, his mouth held in a thin tight line.

"Still the best swordsman in France," Porthos said, looking very pleased with himself.

"Was his sword clean?" Aramis asked, as he swabbed some of the cuts on his friends arms.

"I would imagine so," Athos replied absently. It had been an impressive sword, now lying in the corridor. "He is the type of man to look after his weapons of choice."

"You followed him here," Aramis said, threading his needle.

Athos sighed and closed his eyes but did not speak.

"Athos."

"Yes!" Athos said loudly, "Yes, I followed him. What did you expect?"

"That we would all follow him," Aramis replied. "That you would rally the Musketeers who were on duty in the Palace.

"That we would all, perhaps, work together to contain him?"

"He was mine, Aramis," Athos growled. "From the time he came here with his damned fake peace proposal."

"Why didn't you tell us of your suspicions?" Porthos joined in.

Athos did not reply.

"He was protecting you," Treville said as he stepped into the room. "Your lives were forfeit if Morales was not allowed his first meeting with the King."

"He would have found you," Athos said quietly.

"Athos brought his suspicions to me. If they were not proved, nothing was lost. If he was right, Morales was a loose cannon who needed to be contained. That is why we doubled the guard at the Palace."

"As it turned out, it was not the King he wanted dead, but Richelieu," Athos said.

"He called Richelieu the Puppet-master. He wanted to cut his strings."

"So with Richelieu dead, the void created would give Spain the advantage," Treville said. "The King would flounder and perhaps turn to the Queen's brother for support."

"Exactly," Athos replied.

"The Ambassador said nothing of his plan to kill Richelieu; only to destabilise France," Treville continued. "They were not in the mind to do it. They suspected Morales was too dangerous and wanted nothing more to do with him."

"Spain knew nothing of his plan to kill Richelieu," Athos replied.

"No doubt they have their own long term plans," Aramis said quietly.

"Why did he come back 'ere?" Porthos said. "He could have made his way straight to the border."

"Because he wanted revenge on you?" Aramis asked Athos. "You have been a thorn in his side for some time."

"No," Athos said quietly, lost in thought for a moment. "He did not say that. I believe he only returned here when his plan failed. I think it was the last straw."

"You think he wanted to die fightin'?"

"A final blaze of glory?" Aramis added.

"Perhaps," Athos replied, "Though that is not a word I would put to his actions."

"He was a complicated man," Treville sighed.

"He was evil," Porthos added angrily.

"He was a soldier," Aramis said, "Spain is full of men like him."

"Whatever he was, the world changed around him but his allegiance did seem to be with his country in an odd, twisted way," Athos said.

"You admired him?" Aramis asked.

"You asked me that once before," Athos replied, in frustration.

"And you said you did not know. Are you any clearer now?

Athos stared ahead.

"There were a few times where he had the advantage, but he kept fighting. I believe he chose me to kill him."

"This is way too complicated for me," Porthos growled. "I'm just glad he's dead and there's an end to it. If I'd 'ave caught up with 'im in the first place, none of this would have happened."

"Fate wanted it to play out, my friend," Aramis murmured.

Aramis detected a melancholy beginning in Athos and determined to ease it.

"It's over, Athos," Aramis replied, pausing in his work.

"For him, yes," Athos responded.

"When you have eaten and rested, you'll feel better," Porthos said, taking Athos's hand in his and studying a cuts across the back of his hand.

Athos saw it for what it was; their attempt to offer solace, when the reasoning was beyond them. They would be celebrating, after Aramis offered a short prayer for the man's soul, black as it probably was. Only, Athos was somewhere else; brooding, on what he did not know.

Just then, the rest of the Musketeer guard returned from the Palace; the noise in the courtyard growing.

"What are you broodin' on?" Porthos finally asked. "Explain it to me, Athos, for I can't see the reason."

Athos sighed.

"I would have more time with him," he replied, uncertain. "To understand. He has left me with a question I cannot answer."

"In that, he's like you,"Aramis said, firmly.

"How so?"

"Do you not remember what you told me when we first rescued you from that fiend's clutches?"

Athos frowned, but then shook his head.

"You left him with questions of his own. You taunted him, and you brought out the worst in him. Perhaps he finally acknowledged that."

"Perhaps."

"Let's face it, brother," Porthos added. "He was just a callous bugger."

"Porthos is right," Aramis said. "He was a tormentor. He had perfected that skill. Don't let him torment you from the grave. If you do, he will win."

For a time, Athos did not speak. Perhaps it was as simple as they both believed.

His reverie was broken by Aramis rolling down has sleeves and gathering his equipment.

"Are you finished?" he asked Aramis, aware that Porthos was watching him closely.

"Just about, my friend. Rest now."

Aramis then helped him into a clean shirt and they both took up positions at the nearby table. They would not leave him alone this night.

oOo

In the days that followed, Athos pondered over Morale's final words.

" _You were right."_

Right that Athos had given him pause for thought? That he _had_ brought out the worst in him after their first encounter and become more cruel? Or that he _had_ gone gently on further prisoners – spoiled forever by the remembrance of the honour he used to have as a young man? He had tantalised Athos with both those scenarios.

But he had returned seeking blood. Seeking radical change for both his country and France.

Was it a peace treaty of sorts he proposed? With Richelieu dead, his ambitions to make France a leading light in Europe would die with him. Perhaps their two countries could live peacefully, or at least in tolerance.

Was that what Morales was alluding to?

Probably not.

He was a soldier.

He was a torturer.

He had so much blood on his hands.

Athos would never know, but the game was ended. Morales was dead. Richelieu was alive and the status quo remained. At least they knew that Spain had no stomach _at present_ for assassination.

Richelieu though, was another matter. He was still ambitious; still a warrior. Still just as powerful; if not more determined by Morale's actions. There were mad men around every corner, after all.

"Where is his body?" Athos finally asked Aramis, as they sat in the Infirmary once more, as Aramis removed his stitches.

Athos had healed well, though his thoughts had been dark of late.

"Porthos took it to the City Morgue. He would not leave it here. He wanted to dump it in the Seine but I convinced him the water is polluted enough.."

"Where is his sword?"

"Well, that _is_ in the Seine," Aramis said, a little guiltily.

"It was a good sword," Athos countered.

"No, my friend. It wasn't," Porthos growled.

Athos finally looked Porthos in the eye and smiled, "I am hungry and dinner is on me."

Porthos visibly relaxed and laughed, rubbing his hands together.

"Now you're talkin'" he growled happily.

Athos swung his legs over the edge of the cot and stood shakily. His friends both quickly took their places on either side of him.

Sometimes motives could not be fathomed. But, looking at Aramis and Porthos, _this_ was real.

Perhaps, in the end, it was as simple as they both believed.

But, right now, he had good food and wine and good company to think about.

There was a simplicity to that too; one that he found he relished.

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	54. The Comfort of Friends

So, Dear Readers, I honestly thought I had finished these Talks and some of you did notice I had not written "More soon!" for the first time after Chapter 53. Viewing figures are 49,875. Well, I can't leave it there, can I?

Onward to a more rounded viewing total perhaps?:

oOo

 **54\. THE COMFORT OF FRIENDS**

 **Treville, Serge and Madame Crecy*:**

Treville did not turn his head as she put the pile of clean linen on the chest beneath the shuttered window, carefully avoiding the flickering flame of the tallow candle perched on the corner.

He sighed and ran a hand over tired eyes.

She should have gone home hours ago.

"Serge asks if you want food," she asked softly, smoothing the linen absently with a hand that shook slightly; a remnant of the sight that had greeted those in the Garrison some hours earlier when Athos had returned amid a flurry of hooves, tied to his saddle, bloody and barely conscious.

Treville's lips curled in an approximation of a smile.

"Only if you join me," he replied, his voice betraying his exhaustion.

For a moment, she did not speak, no doubt weighing up the protocol of his request – as he knew she would. Madame never overstepped her mark.

"Very well. Thank you, Captain."

He turned then and met her eyes.

" _Jean_ ," he said. "You are off duty now, Marthe."

She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from its tie behind her ear and smiled.

"Thank you, _Jean._ "

He smiled briefly in return, but it faded as he turned back and stared at Athos, still and pale beneath the sheet she had come to replace.

His duty was to his Lieutenant this night and to the men he had sent to rescue the unconscious man's comrades.

"You're welcome, my dear. Truth be told, I could use the company."

Madame Crecy ran her hand over the linen, steadier now. She shook out the top sheet and turned, holding it to her chest as Treville removed the one that covered Athos, before passing him one side of the hem. He stepped back as it unfolded and together they let it drift down over the prone man, before she busied herself in tightly wrapping the corners at the foot of the cot. Straightening, she nodding in satisfaction.

"That's better," she said to herself, before glancing across at Treville, who was taking his seat once more, his movements slow, as if his joints had become stiff.

"Food!" she said, all-business. "I will tell Serge," she added, more soberly, when he did not reply.

He listened as her footsteps receded.

It would be a long night.

One he hoped his Inseparables would all survive.

oOo

 **Earlier:**

In his jacket, they had found a strip of linen with two words scratched into it, by twig and damp earth; carefully folded.

 _Chateau Lumiere_

It was known to the men of the regiment, for they had passed it many times. It was a ruined house, one days ride from Paris. Once grand, with a ballroom so festooned with chandeliers it had been full of light, as the name suggested; its owner wished to impress his new bride and no doubt he had, for a short time until his debts overtook him.

The house was now in utter disrepair, destroyed by his creditors, whose actions reflected the sort of company he had kept during his ignominious fall from grace.

As a cry for help, the linen note Athos had carried was adequate, but Treville would have liked more.

Their mission compromised, his best men were obviously in need of reinforcements. But against how many? He could not tell by whose hand the message was written, but he would have words when they were reunited. A simple stroke of the twig and he would have known. 6? 8? For peace of mind at least. As it was, he sent eight men, the last of his regiment, given that most were away on various assignments. The Inseparables were the first expected to return, but when they had not and the sun had begun to set, he had felt the first stirrings of unease.

oOo

Athos was laid on a wooden table in the room used by the surgeons and tended as best they could by Treville and Serge. The old man had tutted and shook his head as he limped around the room, after lighting the fire and boiling water in the large pot that hung by thick chains over the kindling.

By the time Dr Lemay arrived, they had exposed the wound in his side and done their best to clean him and make him comfortable, covering him with a light sheet and carefully folding his uniform, placing in on a chair in the corner of the room and his boots by the fire.

Athos had stirred briefly and Treville had done his best to try and convey to him that he had done his duty and a rescue party had been despatched but Athos had stared at him so desperately that he did not know if his words had been understood. Lemay had then begun to stitch and Athos had given in to pain and exhaustion and had not stirred since. Moved to the room at the end of the Infirmary, he had remained unresponsive.

Lemay, always a practical man, had done a thorough job as far as Treville could see, but would not offer false promises; only that he would return in the morning to assess him.

Treville had settled into a chair next to his Lieutenant, and it was there, an hour later, that Madame Crecy had quietly knocked on the door and entered, finding him brooding.

oOo

After they had replaced the sheet, Madame Crecy had returned and quietly taken the seat indicated by Treville, while they awaited Serge's arrival with the promised food.

She had know this man for several years now, since he had come at Serge's suggestion, to offer her a job as Laundress for his new regiment of elite soldiers. She had studied him as he outlined his plans and then had been swept along as he took her to meet the King himself! How Matty would have enjoyed that.

She knew that beneath his gruff exterior and his firm captaincy, he loved and worried over his men. It was a huge burden for one man to carry. She had seen how his trust had been returned a hundredfold by his men. That was enough for her. Now she watched quietly at his side as he became lost within himself, his eyes never leaving his Lieutenant's pale face.

She took a breath.

"Sons are a blessing and a curse," she said quietly. "They march off to war without a backward glance."

She half expected a rebuke for her impertinence but he merely turned his head to peer at her, a deep frown between his eyebrows.

"I never had a family," he said gruffly. "I was spared that."

"You have a fine family," she replied, her voice fond. "You have been spared nothing."

Serge entered then, with a booted foot pushing noisily on the wooden door, laden tray balanced precariously in his arthritic hands.

"Wasn't expectin' to still see you 'ere," he huffed in amusement at her, as she stood to help him place his burden on a nearby table.

"I was not expecting it myself," she replied, "But sometimes it can be a comfort to have an outside party by your side at such times."

"You're not an outside party, Marthe. Never that," Treville huffed, without turning his head.

"Well, I know my place, Captain," she said, mindful that Serge was in the room and reverting back to proper protocol and making to leave.

Treville reached out his hand,

"Stay," he said, looking from her to Serge. "Both of you. Please."

Madame Crecy looked at him carefully. He was tired. This was hard for him, to sit with one of his most respected soldiers, not knowing where others in his command were, or if they were safe. Jean Treville always knew where they were. This was an unusual day.

She took his hand and he guided her back to her seat, as Serge busied himself at the table.

Turning her attention to Athos, she reached out and took up his hand, studying his wrists.

"His hands have been tied too tight," she murmured..

It was only the second time she had touched the Lieutenant.

They had circled each other warily when they first met. He was a private man, she knew. But she had had four sons; three now lost, and she knew the complexity of some of their emotions. Her own emotions were deeply battened down after their loss but these men were now her family, each one slowly breeching her defences.

She took up a damp clothe now and gently bathed his chafed wrists, before binding them carefully in clean bandages.

"I would guess that Porthos did this," she said to herself, almost out of hearing. "He is so kind but he sometimes does not know his own strength. My middle boy, Guillaume, was just like him."

Treville cast a look at Serge who nodded. He had known her husband Matty and all her boys and knew each of the Inseparables had a place in her heart as they reminded her of her own in one way or another.

"He was a good lad," Serge said, his usually gruff voice holding a tender note.

"That he was," she murmured, tying off the bandages.

"It did its job," Treville said, then, breaking their melancholy. "He stayed on his horse."

"Why did they send him back like that, injured and bleeding?" Madame said then.

"It's the usual practise, if a man can ride. Difficult to take care of an injured comrade in the heat of battle, and if there is a chance of rescue, an injured man is often the only option. They will have weighed up all the options and the Garrison is not too far from the Chateau. It was no doubt a calculated move, considering his injury."

From his answer, Madame could see that the Captain had obviously considered it; perhaps ruminating on the decision himself.

"They knew he could make Paris before he bled to death, if luck was on 'is side," Serge added.

She did not baulk at that. She had been married to a soldier after all.

"I doubt Athos went willingly, but he will have seen the fact of it." Treville said.

oOo

"How long has it been?" Madame said absently as the bell of Notre Dame sounded in the distance.

"I do not expect them back until daylight," Treville said, pouring the wine that Serge had brought, along with bread and cheese and a baked dough flavoured with sweet apples.

"These things always happen at night," she murmured, lost in thought.

Athos had once surprised Madame Crecy whilst in the throws of a fever, late at night. She had relieved Aramis for a short time, after finding him exhausted from his vigil. She had suddenly looked up and found Athos staring at her, and then he had called her "Maman." She had taken hold of his hand, the first time she had touched him and he had fallen asleep. She had shed a tear then, away from the Infirmary, at the sheer emotion of that encounter and hoped that he did not remember it, even though she would remember it always.

"Aye, the night time is the worst. Not much to be done but wait on the cockerel's crow," Serge said.

Treville remained silent, lost in his own thoughts of darkness and deep shadows, but glad he was not alone this night.

oOo

 **Later:**

Having eaten what they could, though not doing justice to the fare that Serge had provided, he had taken the tray back to his kitchen with the promise to return with more wine.

Treville had finally closed his eyes.

Madame Crecy reached out and straightened the sheet, re-covering Athos's leg, which had escaped the tight confines of her firmly tucked-in linen.

" _Madame_ "

His voice startled her and her hand froze, resting on his knee. She withdrew it immediately, feeling suddenly flustered.

"Lieutenant," she whispered, before she caught herself and her eyes crinkled in a smile. "It is good to see you."

He held her gaze, the pair of them frozen for a moment.

"And you," he said, taking in his sleeping Captain, a smile hovering on his lips.

"I have caused you some concern," he added quietly.

"A little. The manner of your entrance was somewhat disturbing."

He slowly raised a hand and stared at his bandaged wrist.

"I told him it was too damned tight," he murmured, before meeting her amused eyes once more.

"Sorry," he muttered, regretting his curse.

"No apologies needed Lieutenant," she replied.

"Athos," he said quietly.

"No apologies needed Lieutenant Athos," she said, pleased when she saw a slight smile on his face.

She turned and laid a gentle hand on Treville's arm.

He woke instantly, staring at her hand, before raising his eyes to her.

"We have company," she said kindly, turning her face to Athos. Treville followed her gaze and saw his bleary-eyed Lieutenant, carefully running his hand over the heavy bandage around his waist.

Treville reached over and wrapped his hand around Athos's exploring fingers.

"Be still," he ordered; Captain once more.

Athos met his eyes then and Treville released him, watching as his hand dropped away.

"Damn you, Athos. You will be the death of me."

"What have I done?" Athos whispered, confused, his voice hoarse.

"Not just you, lad. The four of you."

Athos rallied then, an edge of panic catching his voice.

"The Chateau!" he said, trying to sit.

Both Treville and Madame Crecy moved as one, to hold him down.

"I said, be still!" Treville said firmly. "This is a case in point!" he added, a hand on his shoulder.

"I have your message and it has been acted upon. A rescue party has been despatched and I trust we will have a favourable outcome – given you were not outnumbered too heavily?!"

"What?" Athos responded, confused by his Captain's gruffness.

Serge came back then with a tray bearing a flagon of wine and cups.

"Awake then?" he smiled. "Good job I brought an extra cup," he added, oblivious of the tension in the room.

"What?" Athos said again, staring at Serge now.

Madame Crecy put a hand on his shoulder.

"The Captain would have appreciated word on how many adversaries you encountered," she said, by way of explanation.

"Damn right I would," Treville almost shouted, before looking at Madame Crecy. "Sorry," he muttered.

She sighed.

"Will everyone stop apologising to me! I am not made of glass!" she said in exasperation.

"Let's all calm down," Serge said then, pouring four cups of wine.

He handed one to Treville before leaning in and whispering, "You've lost 'im, Captain."

Treville accepted the wine before sighing.

"Who wrote the note?" Treville said then, addressing Athos in quieter tones.

"Aramis," Athos replied, frowning.

"Well, in future, can whoever writes a similar missive tell me how many adversaries are involved? I will then at least have a chance of sending an adequate search party!" he added, downing his wine in one gulp.

"Of course," Athos muttered. "I will convey that to the others," he added, still staring in confusion.

"Not wishin' to speak out of turn," Serge said, "It's been a long night. You 'ad us all worried, lad."

"You did," Madame Crecy said quietly.

Athos stared a Madame Crecy, before shifting his gaze to Serge and finally to Treville.

He saw a look pass between Treville and Serge. Saw how Treville deflated, a silent conversation held and agreed. It seemed he and his brothers were not the only ones who had perfected that art. Almost as soon as Treville had relaxed, Madame Crecy laid a hand on the Captain's arm. He heard them both call her Marthe. It almost felt intrusive to be a party to their silent communication.

"You have all been here all night?" he asked quietly, as a cockerel crowed outside, a testament to the new day breaking.

"If you apologise, Athos, I swear, I will put you on stable duty for a month," Treville growled, but there was no heat in it.

At the touch of Madame's warm hand on his, his eyes slipped shut.

An hour later, the sound of the rescue party returning echoed around the courtyard.

The Infirmary outer door crashed open and Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan almost fell into the room.

Athos opened his eyes.

"Gentlemen," he said, a smile in his voice, relieved to see them unharmed, if a little dishevelled.

"Athos, are you alright?!" Aramis cried, as he took in his injured friend and their Captain, Cook and Laundress, all before them.

"It's alright, Aramis," Athos said. "I am fine," he added, looking around. "I have had the comfort of friends."

Porthos threw his arms around Aramis and d'Artagnan and drew them close.

"Seems like we've all 'ad the comfort of friends this night," he said.

Treville stood.

"A word, Aramis, if you please," he said, leaving a bemused Aramis to trail after him.

Madame Crecy looked at the bandages on Athos's wrists, before walking slowing over to Porthos.

"Ms. Porthos, a word if you please," she said, as she also turned and walked from the room, expecting him to follow.

Porthos frowned at Athos, who merely waved his hand to urge him to follow.

d'Artagnan, left on his own, spun around and looked at Athos.

"What's that about?" he asked.

Athos merely smiled, before indicating the empty chair by his side.

"Just be grateful you have not transgressed in their eyes. Come and give me your report, Musketeer," he replied, as a puzzled d'Artagnan did as he was bid.

"And pass me that wine," he growled.

oOo

*We first met Madame Crecy in Chapter 40

Thanks for reading! And … who knows? I may well be back.


	55. For Love of Roger

Many thanks for continuing to read these tales. We are up to 50,896 views since the last chapter! You make me very happy.

oOo

This one follows on directly from Chapter 54, The Comfort of Friends.

 **55\. FOR LOVE OF ROGER**

 **d'Artagnan, Athos and a certain horse:**

Athos loved his black brute of a horse.

He had been a constant in his life when all about was crumbling. He had ridden away from the meadow, from the brutal sight of that god-awful tree on Roger's back.

In those early days, when nothing made sense, while his heart slowly turned to stone, his only responsibility was to the welfare of this animal and to keeping his sword sharp and clean of rust.

And God alone knows how, he had accomplished both.

When he had not spoken to a man for days, he had spoken to this horse. He had used a lower timbre, had slowed his movements when around him, and had treated him with a grace he thought long since lost.

Roger was ten years old now. Between them they had begun to share traits that had not gone unnoticed by his three brothers.

They all loved their horses, of course. They were cared for with a devotion not often afforded to others in their lives. These animals stood between life and death for the soldiers who rode them. Able to respond when needed, and still when required to. Often, a weapon in themselves, for they were strong, well-bred horses able to mow down an assailant and withstand the odd battering.

They all understood each others devotion to their particular animals.

Perhaps it was because Athos had seen his horse born; from a mare much loved by his mother – a grey, even-tempered horse that he had also seen born. Entranced by long legs that cast the grey foal in all directions, Olivier, as he was known then, found himself hurrying through his duties in order to race down to the fields to watch the grey foal. When, in later life, she had her own foal, Olivier was equally entranced and claimed ownership of him, naming him Roger.

It was a name that had been commonly used by the Normans who invaded England, and was thought to have been derived from "Hrothgar," a character in "Beowulf,"an epic ancient Old English poem that that fascinated both Olivier and Thomas as young boys. They had acted out the parts of Hrothgar, the King of the Danes and his brother many times in their fight against the troll monster Grendel.

So it was with some concern that Athos's thoughts turned this day to his old friend, once finally left on his own in his room in the Infirmary.

The ride back from the Chateau and his besieged brothers had been hard for both of them. Both were pushed to their limits before Athos began to lose his fight to remain conscious. Then, he knew he would have to trust the stallion to keep going, despite the horse being aware of his master's tension. Despite being aware of the smell of his master's blood that liberally coated his mane and shoulder. A maddening smell.

Athos had been vaguely aware of their arrival back at the Garrison and aware briefly that they had found the note that Aramis had scribbled and thrust into his jacket with the words "Château Lumière" scratched onto it.

Then, horse and rider had been separated.

His brothers had eventually returned, liberated by the small force that Treville had sent. Although dishevelled, they were mostly unharmed. Treville had wanted a word with Aramis about the paucity of his rescue note, while Madam Crecy wanted to discuss Porthos's over-enthusiasm at tying Athos so firmly to his horse that his wrists had become abraded; for she had invested several hours at his bedside, waiting for news of the other Inseparables and needed to vent her pent-up concern, however much misdirected.

Left alone, Athos had directed d'Artagnan to the vacant chair for a report of their skirmish. Sitting beside Athos, as instructed, d'Artagnan finished his report. He listed injuries and the deaths of the gang that had ambushed them and then pinned them down in the Château. All the time he was speaking, he noted that Athos was distracted, listening with only vague attention.

"And that's when the King appeared, dressed as a court jester and applauded our efforts," d'Artagnan finished.

"Hmmmm. Thank you, d'Artagnan," Athos replied.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've said," the young man said quietly.

"What? Oh, my apologies. Though I doubt the King would choose such a costume. Far too lowly."

d'Artagnan smirked and shook his head, but then raised his eyebrows for an explanation as to his mentor's distraction, but Porthos barrelled into the room and he did not get the chance to ask.

"You made it back, then," Porthos had smiled as he dropped into the chair next to Athos.

"It would appear so," Athos murmured.

Porthos took in his pale complexion and bandaged torso.

"You alright, brother?" he said, concern creasing his brow.

"Cleaned, stitched and bandaged," Athos replied. "And flat on my back for the foreseeable future, it seems," he added. At the moment, he could not argue with it, he was exhausted, but he knew he would be bored within a short space of time. And then, there would be Aramis's confounded mother-henning to contend with. The man was currently preparing one of his concoctions in the other room.

Porthos grunted, and his eyes then dropped to the bandages that Madame Crecy had wrapped around his chafed wrists.

"Sorry about that," he grunted. "She just chewed me out about that good an' proper!"

"It worked," Athos smiled. "I did not fall off, despite your over-zealousness."

"I'll remember that, the next time," Porthos nodded, sagely. "Wasn't sure you'd make it, though," he said, staring at him.

"For a while there, neither was I," Athos admitted.

"He's a good horse, that one," Porthos said.

"That he is," Athos replied, sleepily.

"Get some rest, brother," Porthos said, pulling d'Artagnan up by the back of his jacket.

"And, thank you," he added. "You saved our lives."

oOo

A few hours later, d'Artagnan returned with a tray. He made up a plate of meat and cheese and carried it over to Athos, who took it absent-mindedly and balanced it on his chest. After a few moments, d'Artagnan was about to urge him to eat when Athos turned his gaze on him.

"Would you do something for me?" Athos finally asked.

"Of course. Anything."

Athos gave him a brief smile of thanks. It was so like d'Artagnan to agree before he heard what was required of him.

"It is something you are good at, and I trust you," Athos said.

d'Artagnan frowned, wondering what he had agreed to.

"What is it?" he asked tentatively.

Athos continued to look intently at him.

"I am, as you know, to stay here for a few days; Treville's and Lemay's orders."

d'Artagnan waited patiently, while Athos looked away and gathered his thoughts. He turned his eyes back on him then and d'Artagnan thought he detected some embarrassment on Athos's part.

"Would you look after Roger for me?" he asked.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth and then closed it again, before asking;

"You don't trust Jacques?"

"Of course," Athos replied quickly, "but I would have him given a little more personal care and I would take it as a great favour if you would do that for me. And him."

"Personal care?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos looked down.

"We … chat," he said quietly, not meeting d'Artagnan's eye. "It calms him."

"I see," d'Artagnan smiled, before asking in a quiet voice, "What do you chat about?"

This was a side of Athos he knew little about. He had seen him spending time with the stallion and he knew it was an intelligent beast; almost human in some ways. Far from finding it amusing, d'Artagnan was deeply touched.

When Athos did not reply, d'Artagnan leant in and smiled;

"It would be an honour."

Athos seemed instantly relieved.

"Thank you. Now that you are all safe, it is a final weight taken from me. He has been through an ordeal and this last episode has no doubt lift him skittish."

"I'll go and take a look at him right away."

At the door, d'Artagnan turned;

"Athos?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why not Porthos or Aramis?"

Athos turned his eyes to the window.

"Porthos tied my hands too tightly to the saddle. Roger was distressed and I could not calm him."

"You were injured, Athos," d'Artagnan replied.

"It is not a criticism," Athos responded. "Merely an observation."

"You think Roger will remember that?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos smiled.

"Roger can be somewhat … vengeful ... and I would not want to put Porthos as risk."

d'Artagnan made a mental note to remember that useful piece of information.

"And Aramis?" he ventured to ask, tilting his head on one side.

Athos sighed. "Aramis would teach him bad habits."

"Ah," d'Artagnan smiled, envisaging Aramis undoing much of Athos's hard work just for the fun of it.

"Thank you, Athos."

"For what?" Athos raised an eyebrow.

"For trusting me with him."

"The ride back here was arduous," Athos replied. "Roger could feel my tension. And smell my blood. He will need a careful hand. I cannot give it."

"You lost a lot of blood, Athos," d'Artagnan said quietly.

Athos did not respond.

Truth be told, he could cope with that, but he had not realised how much he used his stomach muscles for everyday movement and the line of careful stitches sealing his wound ran directly over them. He had soon discovered that lying flat was his best option.

"You are the best one for the job, and I am confined here until Aramis releases me, damn him," Athos replied.

When he had raised an eyebrow about what he was supposed to do about his "other" needs, Aramis had passed him a wide-necked bottle and told him to "get on with it." The life of a soldier had made such things common place, but Aramis still received a glare in response, which he had countered with a wink.

He was under no illusion that the following few days would be taxing in more ways than one.

oOo

d'Artagnan went straight to the stables. Roger was indeed out of sorts, nervously flicking his head from side to side. d'Artagan let himself carefully and quietly into his stall and reached up to place his palm on the stallion's wide neck. As he was running his fingers through the horses mane, he realised he could feel something gritty stuck in the hairs.

Realisation hit him as to the reason why the horse was so distressed.

It was dried blood. Athos's blood.

"Jacques!" he called out and the boy came running in.

"Who washed Roger after Athos came back?"

"Clement, sir," Jacques replied, his eyes wide.

"Do it again," d'Artagnan said curtly.

"Sir?"

"Do it again! And don't let that boy near him again, do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not until he has learned the basics."

d'Artagnan turned and strode out of the stables in search of something to take his mind from the sight.

After he had calmed down, he returned and helped Jacques to wash and groom the stallion. Finally, d'Artagnan washed and brushed his long mane, before carefully tying neat knots in the hairline, which allowed the hair to flow down in silky strands. He then took him out to the training field and walked him on a long line to calm him further. Finally, happy with his work, he took him back to the stables and gave him a rub down.

"And now, my friend, you and I have a mission to complete, by command of your master," he crooned to the horse.

oOo

Over the next few days, Athos did not know the extent to which d'Artagnan had gone to help Roger to settle.

Whenever he had asked where d'Artagnan was, he was told "Out on exercises; Running an errand." d'Artagnan did not want Athos to know just how much time he was spending with the horse, in case he worried that Roger was in need of more attention than he thought. The truth was, d'Artagnan was enjoying bringing the stallion back to fitness and well-being, since he had discovered the cause of his distress and had eliminated it. Roger was now calmer, though still out of sorts, as was his master, as he found out later.

Thoroughly fed up at being confined, Athos had been a difficult patient. Not that he was ever anything else. After a very one-sided conversation, d'Artagnan had finally given up on trying to cheer his friend.

Athos merely watched him.

"Is there anything you want?"

"Just to be on my feet again, but I doubt you can do anything about that," was the curt response. "Can't even see out this damn window," he added.

The bed was directly beneath the window. Athos had used the sill to rest his book, but the only view was of a slip of sky above a slate roof.

"Not much I can do about that," d'Artagnan had replied with a brief smile. However, watching Athos, he began to hatch his plot.

"It's stuffy in here," he said, squeezing into the space between the bed and the window and releasing the catch.

"If you say so," Athos grunted.

d'Artagnan rubbed his hands together.

"Well, if you have everything you want, I'll leave you. No doubt you'll have other visitors soon enough," he said, making his way to the door.

"I await them with bated breath," Athos murmured, which brought a smile to d'Artagnan's lips, though he knew better than to let his mentor see.

oOo

 **Later** :

Athos opened his eyes. He was alone in the Infirmary room. His fingers flexed and he felt an object beneath his hand. Wrapping his hand around it, he held it up and frowned.

The object in his hand was a carrot.

Before he could puzzle much longer, the window above him swung open from the outside. Sunlight spilled into the room across the bed. Still clutching the carrot, Athos looked up.

d'Artagnan's head appeared and he was grinning.

"You have a visitor," he said, dipping back out again.

"What?" Athos murmured, in confusion.

Suddenly, a large shape appeared above him at the window and caught by surprise, Athos smiled.

"Hello, old friend," he said gently, as Roger's large head appeared through the window. He dipped his head and looked Athos straight in the eye, before gently snorting and shaking his head from side to side.

Athos raised his hand and ran his palm over the horse's muzzle.

"You look magnificent," he said softly. "d'Artagnan has done a good job."

Roger dipped his head further down and nuzzled Athos's hand.

Realising he still held the mysterious carrot, Athos laughed;

"Oh, it's this you want, my fickle companion!" he said, offering the carrot to Roger, who promptly seized it and started to chew.

"You have my thanks, d'Artagnan," Athos called out, knowing he was still out there.

Outside, beneath the window, d'Artagnan smiled.

oOo

Later, the door was pushed open and d'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis came noisily into the room.

"Got some good news," Porthos said, as Aramis and d'Artagnan walked over and sat themselves on the end of the bed.

Athos raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"You're allowed wine," Porthos said. "Lemay says it's good for blood loss."

He went back to the door and opened it; leaning outside, he hauled in a crate of six bottles.

"I knew that," Athos said, looking at Aramis, who rolled his eyes. "And so did you," he added, pinning his friend with a stern glare.

Aramis held up his hands in acquiescence.

"I did, mon ami," Aramis smiled, "But I have to wait for the good doctor''s orders when he is in charge, as he is, in your case."

"He is a wise man," Athos smiled as Porthos dropped the crate on a table at the other side of the room.

"That he is" Aramis replied, watching Porthos pull out a bottle and examine it.

"French," he said, happily, pulling out the cork with his teeth.

Porthos looked over his shoulder.

"Not all in one night, mind," he laughed.

"Spoilsport," Athos grumbled.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

Hrothgar, the King of Denmark, does appear in Beowulf and also in Danish sagas and the name was in common use by the Normans who brought it to England after 1066 where it evolved in Anglo-Saxon usage into the more common name "Roger." I liked that. An odd name for Athos's horse which needed some sort of an explanation, I thought, lol.


	56. Anger, Thy Name is Athos

And this chapter follows on directly from the last one.

 **56\. ANGER, THY NAME IS ATHOS:**

Aramis barely made it out of Athos's room before something crashed against the wall. He hurriedly closed it behind him. Whatever Athos yelled from inside was inaudible as another object hit the closed door hard.

"The truce is over then," Porthos sighed, as Aramis quickly crossed the Infirmary floor, dusting himself down.

"It would appear so," he replied. "It was only a matter of time before he became frustrated."

"He seemed perfectly 'appy when he was first in there," Porthos continued, sitting down at the nearby table at the far end of the Infirmary and watching Aramis as he began to pace.

"He had no choice," Aramis replied instantly. "According to Dr Lemay, he was barely conscious."

"Yeah, that helps with Athos," Porthos grunted. "He seemed content to lie and look at the ceiling though," he persisted.

"He was exhausted and in pain, Porthos. Any one of us would have complied."

"So, he's not in pain any more, and he wants to get up and get on?"

"That's about the size of it," Aramis responded, stopping to run his fingers through his unruly hair.

Watching him, Porthos raised a hand.

"What's that?" he growled, pointing at Aramis's exposed forehead.

"What?" Aramis asked, moving his hand to feel the skin at his hairline. Wincing, he sighed.

"A glancing blow, nothing more," he murmured, not meeting Porthos's eyes.

"A glancin' blow from what?" Porthos growled, leaning forward intently.

"Just his book. It's nothing."

Porthos stood and straightened his back.

"Don't you tell me that," he growled again.

"Porthos, let us not _all_ descend into anger. This will pass. He just wants to get back to normal."

"Don't make excuses for 'im. It ain't right. I'm goin' in there," he said, his voice low and his shoulders tense.

"Porthos, no!" Aramis replied, stepping forward and placing his hand flat on his friend's chest. Please, my friend. This will end. It won't be long. Let him burn himself out. In the meantime, we must endure his temper."

And endure it they did. Athos's mood was nothing short of ferocious.

The atmosphere in his room deteriorated.

Of necessity, their visits became shorter. They each took turns to ensure he had what he needed, but it was not an enjoyable experience.

When d'Artagnan suggested he would take Roger for a run, he received from Athos a disinterested wave of his hand, despite Athos's original pleasure at all he had done for his horse.

"Do as you please," Athos muttered. "You don't always have to wait for an order."

d'Artagnan stared at him, "That's not fair. Why would you say that?"

"You want an order?" Athos snarled. "Then here is one – _dismissed_."

d'Artagnan felt as if he had been kicked and consequently, he remained rooted to the spot.

"Christ's blood, just leave me be!" Athos yelled, glaring at him, his lips in a tight line.

When Athos turned away, d'Artagnan finally fled the room.

Aramis and Porthos tried to reason with him, but his temper was so short, they often gave up half way through a sentence.

If he saw the hurt on their faces, he turned his head away.

He pushed his food away, claiming it was inedible.

Aramis had attempted to persuade him to eat, as his food remained untouched. He had merely swung the tray onto the table beside the bed and left it to congeal.

"Athos, you are unsettling Serge. This is the third meal you have refused. He will be developing a complex."

"Just take it away," Athos had said, curtly.

"Athos …"

"Take it away, or get a better cook, damn you!" he had shouted, before glaring at him. "He should have been pensioned off years ago."

Aramis had taken a step back, staring at him.

"It would kill him," he whispered.

Athos's hand had twisted tightly in his sheet as he turned to look at him, but Aramis thought he saw a brief look of confusion fall across his face. His eyes were wide and questioning. It was as if he took no pleasure in his anger. If anything it frustrated him, until the two emotions melded into something terrible to see.

"Are you in pain, brother?" Aramis asked, wanting desperately to understand his friend.

"Why do you ask that?" Athos frowned.

"Because I cannot countenance your cruelty," he whispered. "You do not appear to have a civil tongue in your head. You become more vicious with every day."

"I do not ask for your company!" Athos retorted, his face shuttered, although if Aramis could see his eyes, he hoped they would tell a different tale, but Athos had turned away once more.

"Then I will leave you, my friend," Aramis replied, as evenly as he could, before turning and walking out, closing the door carefully behind him.

This time, it was he who hid his eyes.

And so, it continued.

After a day of biting his tongue, Porthos approached his friends at their table in the yard.

"I've 'ad my last tongue lashin' from 'im, brother or no brother," he growled, reaching for the wine that d'Artagnan had poured when he saw him stomping toward them.

"I must admit," Aramis replied sadly, "It's taking him a long time to calm down. Lemay won't let him back on duty when he is this unstable."

"Unstable?" D'Artagnan replied, staring at Aramis.

"What else would you call it? I saw the look on your face earlier when you came out of his room, my friend," Aramis replied.

d'Artagnan sighed.

"I cannot seem to please him," he replied. "He barely speaks to me. He was fine when I was working with Roger. But the last few days ..."

d'Artagnan had put hours into working with Roger and it was true, Athos had given him his heartfelt thanks, but he had woken in a foul mood the next morning and had been giving them hell ever since.

"It's hard being in the same room with him," d'Artagnan said, barely audibly.

Porthos clapped him consolingly on the shoulder.

"If he wasn't already on 'is back, I would 'ave put him there by now. Friend or no friend," he grunted.

"I really don't know what to do," Aramis said, taking in d'Artagnan's crestfallen face and Porthos angry glare. "He has no fever. His wound is not infected. At least it wasn't the last time he allowed me to look."

"There is one thing," Porthos said carefully, looking from one to the other.

"Why don't I like that look?" Aramis said quietly.

"You said he wasn't in pain..." Porthos said.

"Well, not as much, obviously, but his stitches aren't ready to come out. His stomach muscles were sliced. They need time to heal. And he lost a lot of blood.

"So why isn't he in pain?" Porthos asked.

Aramis could not see where this was going.

"Because he is on a strong pain draught," Aramis replied, with a hint of exasperation. They were all worn out by the whole thing.

"So, take 'im off it," Porthos replied, downing his wine and slamming the empty cup back on the table.

"What?" Aramis and d'Artagnan both said together.

"Take 'im off it," Porthos repeated. "Show 'im he's not as well as he thinks he is."

"That's unethical," Aramis explained, somewhat shocked. "He is confined because he saved our lives."

"I know. But we'd be doin' it for him. You got any other ideas? Said yerself, he ain't fit for duty. So show him. Let 'im see the true state of his body without the pain draught."

"I don't know," Aramis said, head down.

"Think about it, at least," Porthos said. "What else 'ave we got?"

So after much heart-searching, Aramis withdrew the pain draught that he had been putting into the wine that Lemay had prescribed for blood loss. He watched with a heavy heart as his friend's pain slowly returned. Each missed draught brought reality home.

They watched as the anger slowly subsided; but the consequence was that their friend sank into pained silence.

They watched Athos as every movement sent shock waves of hot fire around his stomach, reaching to his chest and shoulders. He had no idea that he was no longer receiving regular doses of Aramis's pain draught in his wine.

No more jugs were thrown. His book remained on the window sill. They were no longer subjected to a string of hurtful invective or fierce glares.

They watched as the fire went out of him and Athos finally seemed to accept that he was not fit for duty.

"I think the quietness is worse," Aramis murmured, as he retrieved another untouched tray of food.

"At least he's not moving about and worrying his stitches," d'Artagnan muttered.

"He's not moving about at all. He doesn't look well." Aramis said bleakly as he sat at their table and traced imaginary circles into the gnarled wood with trembling fingers.

Suddenly, Aramis jumped to his feet.

"I cannot do this," he said. "I almost prefer his anger."

"Where you goin'?" Porthos asked.

"I'm going to give him a pain draught. We will just have to manage his impatience when he is pain free once more," he replied.

Porthos nodded. He did not argue. He also could not bare to see Athos laying so still; his arm thrown over his eyes, in obvious pain.

Aramis strode off to the Infirmary and duly made up the draught, as Porthos and d'Artagnan took out their helplessness in the training area.

Aramis was about to take the draught to Athos when the door of the Infirmary flew open and Percault, a young Musketeer recruit, was brought in with a sparring injury to his scalp; a blade slice that would need stitches.

Aramis sat the pale young man down and duly cleaned and stitched the wound, distracting him with idle chatter, before settling him in a cot for the rest of the day. As an afterthought, he gave him half of Athos's prepared pain draught to swallow.

Slipping out to the laundry to get fresh sheets, he returned to find the young cadet had become agitated. Giving him the rest of the pain draught he sat down beside him to wait until he settled.

However, after half an hour, Percault had become unmanageable and fended off any attempt by Aramis to quieten him. Aramis had no other recourse than to go off in search of Porthos, who hurried back with him. Together they held the boy down, until he wore himself out, by which time, Porthos had received a fist to his jaw and Aramis a torn shirt.

"What the 'ells the matter with him?!" Porthos hissed, as the boy finally succumbed to sleep.

"I have no idea. He is one of our quieter ones," Aramis murmured. "It's his first injury though, perhaps that's it. Let's let him sleep and see how he is when he wakes," he added.

Aramis picked up the empty cup that had held the pain draught and took it across to the table to make up a batch for Athos, who was lying quietly in pain in the next room.

As he quickly crushed the herbs, he stared into the bowl, and his hand slowed.

"Oh, God forgive me!" he suddenly whispered; turning to stare at Porthos.

"What is it?" Porthos asked, frowning.

"It's this, Porthos!" Aramis said, "It's these herbs. They are the cause of Percault's distress!"

"But you said they were on Brother Jerome's* list of herbs for pain relief," Porthos said, crossing the room to Aramis's side and bracing his arms on the table.

"They were! I don't understand it," Aramis muttered. "Unless ..."

"Unless what?" Porthos asked.

" _Athos_ ," Aramis gasped. "Too much, Porthos," he said, as realisation set in. "I have given Athos too much..."

Porthos stared at him, in confusion. "But didn't Brother Jerome say 'ow much to give?"

"No. The parchment he gave me was not specific on the matter. And I have given Athos four cups of wine a day and an amount with every cup! It must have built up in his system."

He turned and looked frantically at Porthos.

"How many bottles of wine have gone?" he asked, grabbing Porthos's arm.

There had been six bottles in the crate in Athos's room, which they had been conscientiously rationing.

"Three." Porthos said softly.

"If two draughts did that to Percault ..."

"Athos has had a damn sight more," Porthos finished.

"He has been losing his mind and I am the reason!" Aramis cried, turning away and throwing his hands over his eyes.

Porthos put a calming hand on his shoulder and squeezed;

"Don't blame yourself. I'm at fault too. I lost patience with his anger," he said quietly.

"No!" Aramis replied, whirling around. "If you had not made the suggestion to stop giving him the draught, we would not have learned the truth of it!"

"And where would Athos be now?" d'Artagnan said, from the doorway where he had been watching and listening to his friends.

"But he has been driven to distraction!" Aramis persisted.

"You were doin' what you thought was right, Aramis," Porthos said. "And we've stopped it now, and he is calmer."

"But now he is in pain," Aramis said, turning to look at the closed door to Athos's room.

"Well, we know Brother Jerome's herbs work; just give him less," Porthos advised.

"He's had enough," Aramis replied.

No-one spoke as they took the terrible information in.

"We have all been subjected to an anger that was beyond Athos's control," Aramis said, breaking the silence. "What must he have been going through?"

"I have to tell him," Aramis finally said, taking an unsteady step toward the door.

Porthos gently restrained him.

"We all go," he said firmly.

oOo

So, together, they told Athos and he listened.

They watched as he slowly lowered his arm and a range of emotions played across his face. After a long moment of silence, Athos released a deep breath.

"I thought I was going mad," he whispered.

The others looked at each other, before Athos spoke again.

"I have a temper, its true, but it was as if I was watching myself from the outside; shouting and bellowing at you." He looked up at them, his face stricken. "I could see how much I was hurting you, but could do nothing about it. _Everything_ spiked fury in me.

"Look at the door," he said then, inclining his head toward it.

They turned to follow his gaze. The door had a long dark stain on the wood.

"It's only wine, Athos," d'Artagnan said, "It will clean off."

Athos groaned; worried that, despite the drug, what darkness was in him that had made him act like that.

"Please tell me I have not acted like that toward you when I have been drunk."

"Well, you did a bit," Porthos murmured, receiving a kick from d'Artagnan before he could say any more.

"Then I apologise," Athos said. "For every unfair thing that I have said, in the past and during these last days," he added, his voice breaking as he stared at them.

"Peace, Athos," Aramis said. "It's true you were not a happy drunk, but we all have another side to us when we are unhappy."

"You were just a bit more unhappy than we were," Porthos muttered, swiftly moving his foot so d'Artagnan could not deliver another kick.

Athos looked at Porthos, who shrugged.

And then Athos actually _laughed_.

"What?" Porthos smiled back.

"I can always rely on you to tell me the truth, Porthos," Athos replied, a smile in his voice.

It was Porthos's turn to laugh, before he sobered;

"And that _truth is_ , Athos, we are all very sorry," he said.

"Please, do not apologise. You did your best for me, and I could not ask for more."

"But if I had a choice," he added ruefully, "I would take the pain rather than the anger any day,"

Later, Aramis rebound his wound tightly and they helped him out of bed for the first time; a painful experience, for which he would take only a glass of wine.

Athos was unsteady and a sheen appeared on his forehead, indicating the toll it had taken.

"I take back what I said about taking the pain," he grunted.

"I think I will sleep standing up," he added. "I doubt I can move any more tonight."

"This will help," Aramis said, holding out a cup.

Athos eyed it suspiciously.

"I prepared it earlier, but you seemed to want to do without. Don't worry," Aramis smiled. "I've tested it."

Athos raised a questioning eyebrow.

"On who?" he asked archly.

"On myself," Aramis whispered.

A silence dropped into the space between them.

After a long moment, Athos looked up.

"My dear friend," he murmured, taking the offered cup.

And this time, Aramis could see his eyes, and there was such emotion held within their depths, that he had to look away.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

*Brother Jerome appeared in Chapter 47

I had to research seventeenth century swear words for this one! Gadzooks was very popular, but somehow I couldn't see Athis saying that! God's blood was another, so I adapted that. Hope it did not offend anyone.


	57. A Trust So Gentle

I originally wrote this as the final part of Chapter 56, but on second thoughts, I wanted the last sentence of that story to be the final word. So I now post this very brief piece of fluff and hope you like it. It ties up the last three chapters and puts them all on an even keel again. At least, that is my intention!

oOo

 **57\. A TRUST SO GENTLE**

 **All of Them:**

" _Friendship consists in forgetting what one gives and remembering what one receives" -_ Alexander Dumas.

oOo

After the unsettling turmoil of the last few weeks, Athos's brothers come together to give him some care and attention.

They came to banish his insomnia.

To show their love.

To tease a smile from his lips and place a glow in his heart.

They did not come to embarrass or to cajole.

But to give.

To renew.

To reaffirm.

They came with pillows.

With a tray of food, four bowls and four cups and a good amount of rich, full-bodied burgundy.

They brought candles and sweet-smelling herbs.

They brought a book; a favourite he had thought long lost, but a copy of which had been found in an obscure bookshop. Much to their delight.

They settled quietly around him.

When night fell, they closed the shutters and lit the candles.

They banked up the fire and opened the book.

They each read him a chapter.

They ate and drank and spoke of pleasant things.

They sang a quiet song.

Later, in the warm ambient glow of candlelight and flames, a bowl of steaming water was set down to wash his face and hands.

They watched as their efforts were rewarded and sleep finally came.

They each placed a kiss on his forehead and softly bade him goodnight.

They left when their work was done.

And in the morning, he remembered their simple, but precious gift of friendship and brotherhood.

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	58. Where is he?

**58\. WHERE IS HE?**

"Where is he?!" d'Artagnan whispered.

"He's comin'"

"Be still," Athos said quietly, stretching out his hand.

d'Artagnan grasped it, holding tight.

Treville appeared suddenly, shouting for everyone but Porthos to leave.

"What the Hell happened here?" he demanded, "And where is Aramis?"

Porthos met his eye.

"He's comin', Captain."

"How do you know?" Treville said, rolling up his sleeves and taking hold of Athos's hand, pulling it away from d'Artagnan's as he began to pull his doublet open.

Porthos moved forward and took hold of d'Artagnan's flailing hand, glaring at the Captain's back.

"Because the Red Guard will be boastin' about it by now. Word spreads fast."

"Then he'd better damned well hurry!" Treville hissed angrily.

" _Porthos_ ," Athos said quietly, as his doublet was pulled from him.

Treville was blazing. Aramis would usually be taking charge, but he was not here. So there was no-one to temper the Captain's fury, and _he_ was paying the price.

"Why did this happen?!" Treville was saying, staring down at Athos, while he started on his shirt.

Athos turned his head to look for d'Artagnan, but Porthos was in the way, taking care of him, but more gently. Running careful hands over him while d'Artagnan lay quietly.

The lack of any response only served to make Treville even more angry and he ripped the shirt away.

He wanted to pull away, to twist out of reach.

 _Please stop._

If he could just get his breath ...

Firm hands took hold of his arm firmly and shifted him.

He allowed it, pain flaring and his breath gone.

He gave himself up to his Captain's angry ministrations.

The pain was almost too much to bear.

 _Porthos._

Pressure. Too much pressure, pushing down.

"Get me some bandages, damn you!" Treville twisted away and roared at some poor soul; his hands still pressing down.

 _Please stop._

" _Porthos!_ "

It was d'Artagnan's voice.

" _He's hurting him_."

Porthos suddenly turned, and swam into view.

 _Please stop._

Porthos frowned as their eyes met.

"Captain!" Porthos hissed, reaching out.

The room was fading.

"Captain, I'll take care of him."

He felt a pull and some resistance, before Porthos spoke again;

"Easy, Captain. I'll take care of him," he repeated.

He felt a final pull and the Captain's hands left him.

"I'll take care of him," Porthos said again.

Suddenly the pressure was gone.

Treville was gone. Faltering footsteps moving away. Muttered apologies.

He felt a familiar hand take his then.

" _Athos_ " - d'Artagnan's voice, bringing him back.

Porthos now bent over him, attempting to stop the flow of blood, but without the anger. Without the shouting. Just his calm, deep voice.

"Hold on, Athos, Aramis is coming," he said, with such calm certainty that Athos believed him.

"Captain didn't mean to hurt you," Porthos said, as he worked. "He's angry as hell at the Red Guard and scared we're on our own here."

Athos slowly blinked and then turned his head and met d'Artagnan's eyes, staring back at him from the next cot.

"Hold on you two. Just hold on," Porthos was saying as he gently separated their hands. "Give me some room to move."

Cast adrift, Athos felt himself floating away.

Suddenly, Aramis was there, striding in, pulling his coat off and rolling up his sleeves.

"I'm here now, Porthos," he said. "Step aside, my friend. I'm here."

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	59. Where is he? (2)

Many thanks for continuing to follow these Talks. After the last one, most of you asked what had happened. Aha! I was ready for you this time. So here is the backstory.

oOo

 **59 WHERE IS HE? (2)**

It was an ambush.

They probably didn't mean it to go as far as it did.

The Red Guard are not that stupid, but some of these were young. Not the old guard that Athos recognised; for _they_ were content to trade insults. If it was dark enough and the shadows fell in the right places, a few blows perhaps. If the inevitable occurred, a duel would be arranged. That would draw a group of them out, come to watch their fellow inevitably bested by one of the King's own, as usually happened. Then they would all run into the night when discovered, because duelling was illegal. Every man for himself.

This night though, it was different. This night would end badly.

They had assessed each other, after the Red Guard had emerged from the shadows of the alley behind them; the bright moon at their backs. Athos and d'Artagnan were at a disadvantage, standing in the full light of the moon's stark white cast.

d'Artagnan had immediately tensed beside him, but followed Athos's lead. This felt more serious. These men were younger; they carried themselves with an arrogance, not a weariness. They were leaner. Hungrier.

Athos had not unsheathed his sword until the last minute. He wanted to give them a chance, despite the odds. Six against two was not overwhelming by any means but these men were testing themselves, he knew. It was ever the same. New men coming through the Red ranks, hearing the stories and wanting to test their luck. Usually, it did not go well for them, but often, such defeats went unreported. Nothing to boast about, being soundly beaten by a Musketeer. And so they kept coming, their insults louder, cruder. And their defeat just as inevitable.

That was before d'Artagnan's time, but he had seen his fair share since he had joined them. Taken his own share of insults about his ability, his choice of regiment. His parentage. He had instantly retaliated, playing into their hands, until it had been drummed into him in the training yard. Until Athos and Porthos had run out of insults to hurl at him. Until he had finally stopped reacting. This was not a matter of honour, they had said. This was a matter of sense. Honour came in not taking the crudely thrown bait. Honour came in sometimes just walking away.

There would be no walking away this night. No turning their backs on these young bucks, out to prove a point. To gain respect for their endeavours.

The battle was fierce. They were obviously well rested and had worked out a strategy. They had picked a time when their prey was making their way home after an evening spent in the tavern.

They were still unprepared.

One by one they went down.

Their victors were unscathed. There was no celebration, merely a re-sheathing of swords.

Leaning over the six to check that they still lived, they were, however, unprepared for what happened next. For it should not have happened after an unequivocal defeat.

There were seven of them, not six.

The seventh had waited, hidden in the shadows, from where he emerged and felled d'Artagnan from behind before turning as Athos came forward and running a blade into him. Their eyes had met.

"Where is the honour in this?" Athos said softly, as the blade twisted, and he crumpled to the ground.

This was something this Red Guard would boast about.

But in the end, he did not.

For he was himself taken. By his own men. The old guard. He would not boast of this, for the status quo was more important than some new recruit's desire for fame. The Red Guard and the Musketeers were rivals. But they did not murder each other in dark alleys.

Richelieu and Treville fought a very different game.

The murder of musketeers in the dead of night was one thing but any attempt to create a legend through those deaths was quite something else. For that would pit their commanding officers against each other in a more deadly battle and that would not be good for France. The old guard understood that. They understood the explosive anger of their volatile young King, who threatened to disband both his own Elite and Richelieu's Red Guard on a weekly basis.

So there would be no boasting. Porthos was wrong. Aramis heard of the battle in a very different way.

A young boy had knocked loudly on the door of the residence where he was preparing to spend the night and told him to hurry back to the Garrison; where he was needed.

Aramis did not know who had returned his two unconscious brothers to their base, for their own guards said they were dressed plainly. But _someone_ had known where he was and what his role was. And that the two injured men were his friends.

So there was no boasting. No change in their rythmn. Their dance would continue. The Reds and the Blues would continue their distrust, their dislike. But they would also continue to accept that they each had their role to play and that they each knew how far they could go.

No-one died tonight. Thanks to an anonymous tip-off and the skills of a soldier-medic. Honour, of a sort, was still alive.

Time would tell if it could be preserved amongst the younger generation who would come up through the ranks. Then, rivalry could turn into something much more sinister.

And it would be France that would pay the price.

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	60. Where is he? (3)

This is for Mountain Cat, and others who wanted Part 3.

This chapter continues directly on from the last one.

oOo

 **60 Where is he? (3)**

"We need to move him," Aramis said, looking at Porthos.

d'Artagnan watched as Porthos struggled to lift Athos from the cot.

He was a dead weight now, and d'Artagnan thought as he watched Porthos make his way to the surgeon's room that he would never forget the sight of Porthos's broad back with Athos hidden from view save for his arm hanging wide on Portho's right side, bouncing against the large man's hip; his hand limp, just hitching with each heavy step and his bare feet on Porthos's left side engaged in the same slow dance.

It seemed to take a long time, though it was a short distance and, once reached, Porthos half-turned briefly and caught his eye, hitching Athos higher so that his head fell back, the familiar mop of hair all that was left to see as Porthos locked eyes with him and nodded, before the door closed and they were gone.

d'Artagnan continued to stare at the door, pulling the sheet up to his chest, his fingers tightening around the material, which he slowly drew up to his lips, to stifle the words he feared would pour from his mouth. Words he had not had chance to say, that now boiled and rolled in his chest.

Slowly, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, trying not to think what would now be happening behind the closed door.

oOo

Inside the room, Aramis worked fast.

"Athos, can you hear me?" he asked urgently, leaning over him.

 _Yes._

"Athos?"

 _Yes, I hear you._

"He can't hear me."

 _I can. I hear you! I hear your breathing. I hear Porthos moving around. I hear you._

"Is he out?"

 _No._

"I believe so."

"No need to knock 'im out then?"

 _Do it. Do it. Please._

There was a long pause, and then incredible pain, as pressure was brought to bear once more.

The noise he finally managed to emit led to an audible gasp and the pressure ceased immediately.

Aramis prised his eyelid open. The light made him wince and he felt a single tear run down his face.

"Dear God, he's awake!"

"What?"

A kiss on his forehead and frantic movements. A folded blanket was placed under his head, and his hand was grasped tightly.

A cup was put to his lips.

"Drink, brother. All of it."

And he did.

He had started to shake now and the hand gripped tighter. Porthos's words washed over him and gradually, his began to let go.

"Sleep, mon ami," Aramis whispered. "So that I can do my work."

His head swam uncomfortably as his body fell away.

Finally, finally, the pain dulled and he was aware no more.

oOo

"More thread, Porthos," Aramis murmured as he drew the needle up.

He had cleaned and poured the requisite amount of alcohol into the wound. He carefully sewed ragged tissue and muscle within the wound with small stitches before moving on to the gash itself.

Porthos passed him a cut piece of thread and he struggled to thread the needle; his eyes stinging from sheer concentration as sweat dripped from his brow. Porthos swiped a cloth over his forehead once he had the needle ready and he bent once more to draw the edges of the wound together.

He had been grateful that the bleeding had slowed down by the time he had arrived at the infirmary and Porthos had said that Treville was responsible for that. Aramis had nodded distractedly, taking in the sight of his brother and making mental calculations of what he needed to do.

The first thing had been to move him from the bloody mess he was lying in. Whatever he needed to do could not be done in that room.

Porthos had assured him that d'Artagnan was alright, having woken and seeming aware of his surroundings. Aramis went ahead to the surgeon's room at the end of the infirmary, leaving Porthos to lift and carry Athos gently through.

Athos had remained unresponsive throughout, a combination of the toll the night had taken on him and the sedative Aramis had given him.

Once finished, Aramis carefully ran a damp cloth over Athos's body, and Porthos gently placed a sheet and a blanket over him. Standing back, Porthos drew Aramis into a comforting hug, feeling his friend's emotions bleeding out of him. Discovering that Athos had been aware as Aramis had started his surgery had been a shock for both of them and Aramis wholeheartedly returned the embrace.

oOo

Later, when the door finally opened and light spilled into the room, d'Artagnan turned his head and hauled himself onto his side. He barely noticed the nausea as he watched two shapes emerge. They stopped to converse briefly before parting; Aramis returning to the room and Porthos moving closer.

As Porthos neared him, he detoured from his path and came closer, seeing d'Artagnan watching him, and sank down heavily onto a chair at his side.

There was little light and he could not see Porthos's features clearly, but he recognised the slump of his shoulders and the exhaustion that leached from him.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth but no words came. He looked past Porthos to the now-closed door at the end of the room and felt his eyes sting. Porthos laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and he wanted to stop this moment. Hold it perfectly still so he wouldn't have to deal with it. Because how could he deal with it? How could _they_?

But when Porthos spoke, they were not the words he had heard exploding in his head, the shrapnel searing his heart and his over-taxed lungs. They were not words that broke him into tiny pieces, each etched with more emotion than he had ever expected to feel, even as he had cradled his dying father in his arms.

They were words that had to be repeated, in a voice he hardly recognised, as the hand squeezed his shoulder.

"He made it."

And when those words finally penetrated his turmoil, the tears that had threatened him came.

For both of them.

"Gotta tell the Captain," Porthos said gently, sniffing and rising slowly; a man who had carried a heavy burden this night, though shared by the three of them, now succumbing to exhaustion.

"We'll move 'im back in 'ere in the mornin' " Porthos was saying.

Standing over him, he lingered.

"Get some sleep, d'Artagnan. We'll need to make sense of this later, yeah?"

"Is Aramis alright?" d'Artagnan asked.

"As right as he can be, covered in 'is brother's blood," Porthos replied grimly, before pulling the sheet up to d'Artagnan's shoulders. "Main thing is, we're all still 'ere. Still together."

oOo

"How are they?"

Treville did not turn when Porthos entered his office. He remained at his window, his fist bouncing off the window sill. The candle had all but burnt out, but it had gone unnoticed. Porthos closed the door quietly and stood watching him, the only light in the office was the shaft of moonlight that pierced the window, illuminating the side of Treville's tense face and falling across his littered desk.

Finally, Treville looked over his shoulder. Porthos had not often seen him look anguished, but that was the word that described him now.

Treville turned fully then and that emotion was gone, replaced quickly by an anger Porthos _had_ seen, many times.

Porthos tilted his head back and met his steel-like gaze.

"Aramis has just finished," he grunted. "Said he'd be up shortly."

"You didn't answer my question," Treville said, straightening his back.

"They're alive. Though God knows how," Porthos growled.

Treville sighed and moved to his chair, practically collapsing and grabbing the edges of his desk for support. The anger was gone, replaced by something else now.

Porthos did not move.

"I need to apologise," Treville finally said softly, without looking up.

"Who to?" Porthos frowned, hooking his hands in his belt, his feet planted firmly on the floor.

Treville scrubbed his hand over his face roughly.

"Athos," he said softly, before looking up. " _You_."

Porthos started to shake his head.

"Not to me Captain," he replied, holding his gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line. "An' I doubt Athos will remember."

"I was no good tonight," Treville hissed.

"With respect, that's not your job. You do the things we can't."

Treville leant back heavily in his chair, which creaked loudly under the strain.

"Like what?" he said, staring at Porthos in the gloom; the air oppressive around them.

Porthos met his glare with one of his own.

"The Cardinal," he growled, "He needs to know how far 'is men went tonight."

Treville turned his head back to the window. A long moment passed before his spoke again.

"I lost my temper in there, Porthos," he persisted.

"Hmm. We've all done that," Porthos replied. "No harm done."

Porthos had had time to reason it out. He had his own unpredictable temper, often lost in times such as these. Tonight may have seen him react in much the same way as his Captain had, had he not had the sole responsibility for taking care of Athos and d'Artagnan until Aramis arrived. He needed to keep his head. He could hardly criticise his Captain for losing control of his temper at the sight that had greeted him when he entered the infirmary this night.

Treville continued to stare toward the window, before reaching behind him for another candle.

"Captain. The Cardinal?"

"And say what?" Treville answered roughly, as he lit the wick. "Some of your men attacked mine, and then some of them saved them?"

"You sure about that?"

"I wasn't, but I have had a visit from Serge. He recognised one of them. A sergeant of long standing, apparently."

"So, you're saying, some of the Red Guard brought Athos and d'Artagnan back 'ere. How do we know they weren't the ones who attacked them?"

"Because Serge watched them go. They joined up with another group and dragged them off."

"What am I missin' 'ere?" Porthos said, finally sitting down on one of the chairs next to the desk.

"It seems they were all Red Guard. But they seemed split on the matter. There appeared to be a reckoning going on, if what Serge saw was right. And I have no reason to doubt him."

"No, he don't miss much," Porthos said. "So," he went on, "You think that cancels their actions out?"

"Only if the attackers are reprimanded," Treville said.

"Seems to me," Porthos responded, "we need to find out who the first group are, and which one of them skewered Athos and clouted d'Artagnan."

A brief smile flitted across Treville's face at Porthos's succinct description.

Just then, they were alerted by slow heavy footsteps on the stairs. A few moments later there was a brief knock on the door and Aramis came in, looking exhausted and fit to drop. Evidence of his night's work was plain to see. His sleeves were still rolled up but even so, they were stained red, as was his forehead where he had obviously wiped his hand across his brow.

Porthos pulled out a chair while Treville poured three glasses of brandy.

"Report," Treville said, as soon as Aramis had taken a drink and a calming breath.

"d'Artagnan has a concussion but I have not needed to stitch his scalp. He'll need watching. He was unconscious for a long time."

"Got a hard 'ead, that one," Porthos muttered.

"That he has, by God's grace," Aramis sighed.

"And Athos?" Treville asked.

"Not so good," Aramis replied.

He glanced across at Porthos.

"Whoever did this meant it. It was a controlled thrust, twisted to cause maximum damage. Luckily for Athos, it was a short blade, but whoever did this wanted to kill him."

"Not the Red Guard's way," Porthos grunted. "We've had some run-ins, some pretty serious, but nothing like this."

"Well, if it was the Red Guard they have changed tactics," Aramis said, taking a steady mouthful of his brandy.

"It was most definitely the Red Guard," Treville said, looking at Porthos. "I need to see the Cardinal and find out what the hell is going on."

Porthos nodded in acknowledgement.

"Porthos," Treville continued, "I want you to ask around tomorrow. I need to know why the Red Guard appeared to be split tonight. Then I can at least go to the Cardinal with something stronger than what we currently have."

"Two wounded Musketeers aren't enough? Aramis said angrily.

"No, I am afraid they are not," Treville replied. "Bring me names and as much information as you can. We will put this conundrum together and see what we have. If there is dissent in the Red Guard ranks, I need to know."

"So does the Cardinal," Porthos growled.

"And he will, I promise you, when we have evidence that this was a co-ordinated ambush."

"Athos and d'Artagnan should be able to tell us more, when they wake," Porthos replied.

"d'Artagnan was struck from behind. He won't have seen who did it." Aramis said. "And it will be some time before Athos can speak."

Porthos caught Treville's eye and saw the raw emotion that flitted across the older man's face. Aramis was not privy to what had happened before he had arrived, but it was enough for Porthos that Treville had acknowledged his loss of control and apologised for it. As far as Porthos was concerned, that was the end of the matter.

"Find out what you can then," Treville said.

"I must get back," Aramis said, rising unsteadily to his feet.

"You need to rest. Porthos and I will sit with them. You take my bed."

Aramis was about to protest but a firm hand took hold of his arm and all but dragged him behind the screen and deposited him on the bed.

"No arguin,' Porthos said firmly. "I'll come and get you if we need you."

oOo

The next day, Porthos set out. It did not take him long to find someone who wanted to talk. In the shadows of the tavern, he was given a name.

"He's wrong," the man had said. "Even for a Red Guard."

"You're sure of this?" Porthos had said, glaring the man, but he needed no intimidation to co-operate.

"You'd be doing us a favour," the man had said, slinging his ale down his throat and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Standing and pushing his chair back, the man looked down at Porthos.

"There are others, but you take this one out, and the others will get in line. There are some of us who will make sure of it."

"Thanks," Porthos had said, more in relief than gratitude, as nothing was given freely by the Red Guard. The Musketeers would do what they could not do themselves.

And so, armed with the evidence, Treville went straight to the Louvre and sought out Richelieu.

He did not expect it to be easy. The man was difficult and unpredictable, to say the least. He was not prepared for the anger that radiated off him.

"This is surely mere youthful exuberance," he had first volleyed.

"You call attempted murder "youthful exuberance? That is unparalleled, even for you," Treville had countered.

"And where does this evidence come from," Richelieu said. "Some reprobate who seeks to cause mischief?"

"They were seen on the night in question by Serge."

Richelieu snorted.

"An old man with eyesight only useful for cutting vegetables?" he mocked, attempting to return to his papers and effectively dismiss Treville's argument.

"A soldier of many years standing, who has fought for his country in countless campaigns," Treville hissed.

"Who calls his musket, " _Cleopatra_ ," as I hear," Richelieu drew out the word with a sneer.

"How would you even know that?" Treville asked quietly. "Does your need for intelligence now extend to elderly retired Musketeers? Why would that be?"

Richelieu was quiet.

"What I do I do for France," he said quietly.

"And I am sure France is grateful, as Serge will no doubt be gratified that you think him so important."

"This is ridiculous, Treville. What do you expect me to do?"

"Find your loose cannon, Cardinal. Or I will. And I will ensure Louis knows of this."

Richelieu stilled.

"What purpose would that serve?" he murmured, shuffling his papers.

Treville could see his mind turning.

"It would serve _my_ purpose." Treville replied, turning and striding from the room; the door banging behind him.

oOo

Two days later, His Eminence summoned Treville to his rooms.

In the early morning light, the two commanders faced each other across Richelieu's desk.

"Is it done?" Treville asked, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

Richelieu had not risen from his desk, but sat tapping his long fingers on the papers in front of him.

"Yes," he replied. "It seems he was fitted more to the role of an assassin," he sighed. "Useful, but unpredictable, apparently. These things happen. Such individuals can slip through the ranks of any regiment."

Treville recognised the jibe, but let it go.

"And the others?"

"Redeployed. Permanently."

Treville knew not to pursue the matter. Richelieu's curt response was enough. He was angry that he had been embarrassed by his own guard. Angry that they had been caught, at least, Treville thought.

"Your men?" Richelieu finally grudgingly asked.

"They will live."

"That is the most we can ask," Richelieu replied, waving his hand.

"The most we can ask," Treville said, "is that this never happens again."

"Yes, well that goes without saying," Richelieu murmured. "Now, if we are finished here, I am late for Mass."

With that, His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu swept out, leaving Treville to find his own way out. Fortunately, he knew the route well. This would not be the last time such machinations took place within these walls. They both knew the rules of this game. Unfortunately, this time, it had had dire consequences **.** Treville had left Athos that morning propped up on pillows, pale and in pain. It would be weeks before he was on his feet. Officially, at least.

Treville only hoped that Richelieu was not behind this affair. That did not bear thinking about. That would be a very different game.

One he doubted he had the stomach for.

oOo

Thanks For reading!


	61. Where is he? (4)

**Happy New Year!**

Further thoughts from all on this tale ... it's not settled for all of them.

oOo

 **61 WHERE IS HE? (4)**

" _But I say to you who hear, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you."_ **Luke 6** _ **:27**_

oOo

"Athos," Aramis said quietly as he plumped up the pillows behind his friend. "I have been thinking."

Athos looked up from his book and his eyes narrowed. Aramis himself was not making eye contact; not a good sign.

He closed his book and with a small sigh he murmured, "Go on."

For a moment, Aramis did not respond. He began to fuss with the blankets; tucking them in.

"Are you warm enough? Can I bring you another blanket?" he asked softly.

Athos watched him silently. Still, Aramis did not look him in the eye.

"Something to eat?" he chattered on, now turning to look at the side table and reaching out to make room for a tray of food that may appear at any moment.

"Aramis," Athos said, with just an edge to his voice; his hands resting on the closed book on his lap.

He had been confined to bed for several days now, since the attack by the Red Guard in the alley. He had managed to get the barest details from Aramis, who did not wish him to concern himself; but Porthos had been more forthcoming. It seemed Treville had reached an agreement with the Cardinal after Porthos had tracked down the perpetrator who had so viciously injured Athos; intent on his murder. That man, apparently, was no longer in Richelieu's employ, but Athos had stilled Porthos toward the end of his tale, as it was obvious that anger was very near the surface. Porthos above all else, wanted to know what had happened to the Red Guard whose name he had extracted in a tavern. Porthos liked closure. And he liked justice. Neither of which he felt had been achieved, despite Treville and Richelieu's agreement.

d'Artagnan, he knew, sided with Porthos. He had been injured in the attack and has received a concussion worthy of one of Athos's worst hangovers.

Aramis was still chattering and Athos turned his attention back to him once more.

"Tomorrow," Aramis was saying, "We will get you on your feet, I think, although I thought you would have at least attempted to do that yourself by now, you have hardly been a model patient in the past ..."

"Perhaps," Athos interrupted, "it is in deference to your skills. It would hardly be fair to undo your hard work."

Aramis instantly stopped and looked at him.

"Really?" he said softly, his eyes shining.

Athos dipped his head and ran his fingers over the cover of the book.

"I understand from Porthos that this was a particularly trying procedure," he said, waving his hand over the bandages that swathed his torso.

"You've already thanked me," Aramis replied, looking away and running his fingers through his hair.

"And I shall continue to do so," Athos said, "Until you allow me to leave."

Aramis smiled. "Soon," he said.

"What do you want to talk about?" Athos asked him, trying to steer him back to his original statement.

"It's nothing," Aramis said, turning away.

"Aramis," Athos chided, in that tone he used that he knew his brothers felt compelled to answer.

Aramis duly sighed and sat down heavily on the chair by the bed.

Athos watched him for a few moments before his friend raised his head and met his gaze.

"I had cause to visit the Red Guard infirmary yesterday," he began, before drying up.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

This was not what he had expected to hear. The Red Guard had their own infirmary of course, located in their own garrison to the west of the Louvre, but he had no idea Aramis had ever seen it. _He_ certainly had not.

"And?" Athos prompted.

Aramis looked away, before turning back quickly and meeting Athos's steady stare. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth.

"Athos, it's awful," he said quickly, "It is dark. They have very little in terms of herbs and medicines. Their linen is woefully old. There are no cupboards to store bandages. There is not even a fireplace on which to boil water. It is far from the kitchens, so any food that is delivered must be cold by the time it arrives …."

"Aramis," Athos interrupted, tersely and Aramis stopped in mid-sentence.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know," Aramis said, suddenly deflating.

"Yes," Athos replied. "You do."

Aramis reached out and took Athos's hand, lifting it off the book. Athos allowed it, frowning at his friend, but Aramis did not speak.

"You want to help," Athos said flatly.

"Is that so bad?" Aramis replied bleakly, his eyes wide.

"They are the Red Guard," Athos replied.

"I know. It should be a much better place!" Aramis replied.

"What I mean is," Athos said patiently, still allowing Aramis to cling to his hand, "They are under the Cardinal's jurisdiction."

Aramis's shoulders slumped. "I know."

Athos watched him.

This was so like Aramis. He could probably quote a dozen passages from the Bible on forgiveness, and believe every one. He himself had given no quarter to the concept; for his wife or for himself. It was as alien to him as the thought of him continuing to uphold his birthright. One attribute he did pride himself on, one of the few, however, was his ability to listen and arrive at a sensible option that would solve a problem or find a solution.

And so he tilted his head in thought.

"So," he murmured, "How will we do this?"

Aramis's head shot up.

"You are alright with this?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "They hurt you so badly."

" _One_ of them did," Athos replied. "And I cannot help in this state; but I also doubt that d'Artagnan and Porthos will be amenable to the idea."

"No," Aramis replied.

"Or Treville," Athos added.

"We should forget it," Aramis said, making to rise from the chair, only to be stopped as Athos spoke again.

"What you could start with," he said, "Is a list of requirements. Nothing too elaborate, Aramis; I know you – you will want to run before you can walk. You only have to plant the seed. Take it to Treville. Appeal to his sense of honour. But mark my words, you will get no thanks for this. And, probably, little help."

"God helps those ..." Aramis started, only to be stopped by Athos's raised hand.

"Yes, I know," he grunted.

"So," Aramis continued, "When you talk about appealing to the Captain's sense of honour – how so?"

"Both our regiments guard the King," Athos explained. "It is to our mutual benefit that we are all fit and able to do so.

"You have Father Jerome's* papers. You may like to copy them out and share them. That way, it does not all come from us. They may not want our assistance, so that would be a start. Then, perhaps you could petition the Sergeant at Arms who Serge knows, who helped get d'Artagnan and I back here after the attack."

"You know about that?"

"Serge told me," Athos replied. "He has a sense of fair play."

"But first," he added. "You have to convince d'Artagnan and Porthos.

oOo

"Are you out of your mind?!" Porthos yelled. "No, Aramis. No. Definitely, no."

d'Artagnan looked at Athos, sitting propped against his pillows, dark shadows beneath his eyes; evidence he was far from healed.

"What do you think of this?" he asked him quietly.

Athos did not speak for a moment. He fully understood Porthos's reaction.

"If it is something Aramis feels deeply about, then I will not stand in his way. But you must make up your own mind," he replied.

"'Ow can you forgive them?!" Porthos raged, kicking over a chair. They all knew he hated the Red Guard, even before this latest debacle. This was never going to go well.

"I didn't say that I forgive them, but as I said to Aramis, this was the work of one man. Who is to say the others were not led to believe it was to be a simple ambush?" Athos replied.

"It was nothin' like a 'simple ambush,' Athos," Porthos growled. "You didn't see the consequences. You didn't see the state you were both in when they brought you back."

"Precisely," Aramis replied, finding his voice. "They brought them back, and they came to warn me. If they hadn't done that, they may both be dead, my friend."

"That was God on your side, not the Red Guard," Porthos growled, taking Aramis aback. Porthos rarely spoke of God, but Aramis had the thought that his argument erred toward anything that did not show the Red Guard in a good light.

"And God would want us to forgive," Aramis said.

" _Would_ he," Porthos stated, his voice low with anger. It was not a question, it was a challenge.

"Gentlemen," Athos sighed. "Let us agree to disagree. I am neutral on the matter and I believe if I am hearing correctly, d'Artagnan and Porthos are against. So, we are split. Let Treville have the final say.

oOo

"You want to do what?!" Treville said, glaring at Aramis, who stood in front of his desk. Having weathered the response of his three brothers, he was feeling a little bolder.

"I know. I have heard all the arguments," he replied.

"So, your brothers are against this?!" the Captain asked, screwing up a piece of parchment he had defiled when he first heard Aramis's request.

"d'Artagnan and Porthos are," he replied.

"And Athos?"

"He says he is neutral on the idea," Aramis replied.

"Does he indeed. He is still recovering, Aramis. Ask him in a week when he is still trying to stand upright and he may have a more definitive answer for you," Treville growled, picking up a new piece of parchment and retrieving his ink well from beneath the documents on his desk.

Aramis stood in his place in front of the desk.

"Why are you still here?" Treville said tersely, not looking up.

"You did not dismiss me," Aramis replied. "Nor my idea."

Treville slammed his fist on his desk, making the ink stand jump.

"They could have died, Aramis," he yelled, his voice hoarse; the memory still close to the surface.

"I know Captain," Aramis replied. "But as Athos says, it was the work of one man."

"Several men," the Captain corrected.

"But the name you gave to the Cardinal was the man who stabbed Athos," Aramis countered stubbornly.

He did not know what was spurring him on like this. Perhaps it was the same emotion that required him to treat an enemy in battle. The trouble here, was that this directly involved the closest friends he had, and his Captain, who he respected above all else. He was thus hugely conflicted and ready to agree to drop the whole thing, when Treville spoke once more.

"What benefit would we have in helping stock the Red Guard's infirmary and share our knowledge of medicine."

"What benefit is there in withholding it?" Aramis asked.

"I know they are an abominable group of men, Captain," he added, "But who knows how they are treated within the walls of their garrison? The old guard have some semblance of honour, still. Perhaps if they have better conditions of care, the younger ones will have some sense of camaraderie and honour instilled in them and not see the Musketeers as the enemy, better equipped, better dressed, better looking ..."

His last words brought a reluctant smile to Treville's lips.

Aramis leaned in conspiratorially.

"It could be our greatest victory," he said softly.

Treville huffed.

"Don't tell me God has spoken to you and this is His request," Treville sighed.

"No, this is entirely my own work. I strayed close to their infirmary, out of curiosity, and to see if I could learn anything," Aramis replied. "But, alas, there was nothing to learn. The opposite, in fact."

"And now you cannot rest until you rectify that," Treville sighed, running his hand over his close-cropped hair. "That does seem to be your nature," he added, before looking up and giving him a half-smile.

"And I commend you for it, however misplaced it is," he finished.

He turned serious then.

"You do realise, you may lose the friendship of two of your brothers if you pursue this?"

Aramis looked shocked. He had never thought for one moment that that would happen. However, the ferocity of Porthos's response and d'Artagnan's silence had left him feeling definitely off-kilter.

"Is it worth it?" Treville asked him.

"I don't think that will happen and I will do everything I can to avoid it. But if it does, I will weather it," he replied, grasping his crucifix in his hand. It was the last thing he wanted, but sometimes he was driven by good and this was one such time. Once it was done and conditions were improved, perhaps he could rebuild his friendships. He was sure of it. Wasn't he? The look on Porthos's face had broken his heart. They were so far apart on this; but Athos had been non-committal and he had endured the most hair-brained ideas of his three brothers, so he hoped he would remain true to their friendship. He had after all, given him a strategy.

One person he still had to persuade was Madame Crecy.** Her laundry skills had kept them safe and free from infection, as she had taken control of the laundry, ensuring only boiled and starched linens were used, and that bandages were destroyed and replaced on a regular basis. Her skills could be transferred to another such woman who could be employed by the Red Guard. Madame may also be able to recommend someone, although she would need to be a special someone to cope with the Red Guard, he thought.

Not for the first time, he doubted himself on this endeavour.

Madame Crecy though, was open to the idea. As with Athos, she had an open mind and saw the benefits of any such endeavour, be they Red Guard or not.

"Perhaps this may heal old wounds," she told Aramis, as he sat with her in the laundry, outlining his plans.

"I wish d'Artagnan and Porthos were as open as you and Athos," he had replied.

"They will come around," Madame said. "They have to see it in action."

"How?" he asked.

"By taking the moral highground. By being involved from the start; helping to relocate their building. And by seeing the benefits as the first injured man is treated."

The Cardinal had been petitioned and had several Bible passages quoted to him by a certain Musketeer, plus the benefits that soldiers could be quickly returned to active service through better treatment, rather than soaking up money and resources languishing in ill-health. His Eminence had responded to the latter argument and had supplied a small grant to commence the work. Later, when he extolled the virtues of taking care of the King's guard to the King himself, he had embellished his own involvement and received a round of applause from the Court.

And so, work commenced. Nothing too grand; some building work; Father Jerome's papers stored in the newly relocated block; local physicians vetted and contracted. Cupboards built to replace open shelves. A hard-minded no-nonsense laundress employed. The rest, as it turned out, would follow.

Things did not go smoothly initially. The Red Guard assembled to watch, and were of course, suspicious. Porthos had reluctantly followed Aramis and had got involved in some of the building work, only to get into a fight which partially demolished the wall he had just built. d'Artagnan had placed himself between Porthos and the group of Red Guard that were the most disruptive and after a while, a distrustful truce had settled on them, and work continued.

As it turned out, the first person treated was a young boy from the street outside the new infirmary block. Porthos had forgotten for a while that their own Musketeer infirmary took in local residents sometimes, and this young man had been horribly burned in the local foundry. Previously, there had been nowhere to take the boy, but word of the Red Guard's new facility had reached the local people and, although they were initially reluctant, as the Red Guard were not thought of kindly, they knew the King would not have local people turned away. The Cardinal tolerated it. The trust of the people was always a positive thing and could be called upon when needed. Local people were, after all, fodder as new recruits for his guard.

Porthos had helped when the young man was brought screaming into the infirmary room. d'Artagnan had run for a physician and some of the Red Guard had watched from the window to see what was happening, muttering in positive tones at what they saw.

Athos was right. It served both their purposes if they were all fit and healthy. The Red Guard had their uses. Any assassination attempt on the Monarchs would need both contingents working to mediate the threat.

As Athos returned to health, he smiled as he watched Aramis putting his own concoctions down on parchment to store at the Red Guard facility.

"You are a good man, Aramis," he said as he watched him.

Aramis looked up.

"You know I would not have done this if you had been against it," he said quietly, before returning to his task.

"I know," Athos replied. But the flame would have taken a long time to extinguish, he thought.

"We cannot forgive ourselves if we cannot forgive others, Athos," Aramis was saying. "And he who is incapable of forgiveness is incapable of love," he added.

"That, my friend, is something that could never be applied to you," Athos replied.

Aramis looked up and smiled.

"You are my brother, Athos. And I love you."

"I know," Athos repeated.

Perhaps, one day, he would be able to forgive and love as readily. Maybe, in this, he had taken the first step.

 **oOo**

Thanks for reading! More soon, because Porthos is still not happy.

*Father Jerome appears in Chapter 47

**Madame Crecy appears in Chapter 40


	62. Where is he? (5)

So, it seems these "Talks" are here to stay for a while. This chapter completes the "Where is he?" story.

Sorry to post two stories at once, I hope I am not confusing anyone (apart from myself!).

Thank you for sticking with these tales from the Infirmary. Who knows what will occur to me next? Fingers crossed I will think of something.

Just a quick word of warning; Porthos is in no mood to be gentle.

oOo

 **62 Where is he? (5)**

One week later, Porthos disappeared.

He had complied with Aramis's wishes to ensure the Red Guard's infirmary was restocked and made more serviceable; but they all knew he was far from satisfied.

Serge set out the breakfast trays and jugs of ale and he did not come.

d'Artagnan had waited for him to appear for their training sessions but they sun came up and rose high in the sky and he did not come.

"He has his name," Aramis said, quietly.

Porthos had scoured the taverns and finally found a Red Guard who wanted to talk. His brothers' attacker was apparently, an arrogant son of a minor baron. Porthos had passed his name to his Captain, who had ensured the Cardinal dismissed him, albeit reluctantly.

Athos raised his head and glared at Aramis.

"And I saw his face," he replied. "What is he planning?!"

Aramis sighed. He had been standing with his back to the window, watching Athos take his first tentative steps; bent over and shuffling as his damaged stomach muscles protested his attempts. Treville had predicted this. As recovery proved slow, Athos would prove impatient and would need careful handling.

Now, Porthos was gone.

"And where is he?" Aramis muttered to himself, his eyes not leaving his sullen friend, who was now leaning his back against the wall, effectively propping himself up.

Aramis reached across and picked up a cloth from the nearby table and tossed it to Athos to wipe the exertion from his face. Athos was wise enough not to cause himself further damage by reaching up to catch it. It was testament to how distracted Aramis was. Athos watched as the cloth fell between them, before raising his face and his eyebrow in admission to his friend, who was still lost in thought.

When Aramis finally looked his way, a look of horror crossed his face as he realised what he had done. He quickly pushed himself off the window sill and bent to pick it up.

"I am so sorry, my friend!" he declared, clasping the cloth tightly and taking the few quick steps needed to bring it to Athos's grasp.

"Did you have _no_ idea what Porthos was planning?" Athos persisted, as he wiped his face vigorously and tossed the cloth angrily onto the nearest cot.

"None," Aramis replied, "though he made his sentiments about restocking the Red Guard's infirmary eminently clear."

"Then we have to find him," Athos said, calming a little.

Aramis placed his hand firmly on Athos's chest.

"There is no " _we_ " in this, Athos," he replied firmly. "You are in no condition to go tearing across country. And anyway, whatever further information Porthos has on this man, he has kept it to himself."

"It seems, then," Athos said quietly, "that Porthos is on a one-man mission."

oOo

" _Where is he_?!" Treville yelled, stalking into the infirmary and confronting Aramis.

Aramis threw a concerned look at his Captain. He could give him no answer, and Trevile looked in no mood to accept a bluff, and so he did not respond.

Treville, however, read his face and turned to look at Athos, now sitting propped on pillows on his bed, before running his hand through his hair in sheer frustration.

"He asked for two days leave," he growled. "I said I'd think about it. He obviously couldn't wait. If he's not back in two days, I'll consider him absent without leave."

Giving them both a glare, he turned and stomped from the room, in no mood for further discussion.

"I think," Athos said quietly, "That he is more angry that Porthos didn't wait for his reply, than what his intentions might be."

oOo

Porthos had been busy.

He had sought out Sergeant Duponne once more to elicit further information on the disgraced Red Guard. Only to find that the man had been seriously wounded the previous day and was now ensconced in the very infirmary that Porthos had recently helped to renovate.

As Porthos made his way over to the cot in the corner of the room, his heart felt heavy. Duponne was his only lead and by giving him the man's name, he had put himself in danger; and at Porthos's instigation.

He sank down next to the heavily bandaged man.

After a while, the injured man opened his eyes.

"Was it 'im?" Porthos asked, without preamble.

"Yes," Duponne sighed. "He killed his own father two days ago. Thrown out of the army and now thrown out of the Red Guard. He faced penury and so wanted his inheritance. Hacked the old man to pieces."

"I'm sorry," Porthos said, looking the man in the eye.

"Don't be," Duponne grimaced. "He is out of control. You and I merely ensured his downfall."

"Know where 'e is?" Porthos growled.

"I have an idea," the man replied and told him of his suspicions. The Red Guard were usually slow in their investigations, but this time, they had uncovered some information.

"You'll need to be quick. His card is marked," Duponne added, giving him an address.

Porthos rose, the piece of parchment crumpled in his hand.

"You get well, yeah?" he said quietly, looking down at the man.

"My odds are better now," Duponne smiled, looking around. "I hardly recognised the place."

"It don't mean I've changed my mind on you lot," Porthos grunted. "But you're the second one who's broke the mould."

"Who was the first?"

Porthos looked away. Aubin Fabron was never far from his thoughts; the small carved horseshoe an ever-constant in his pocket.*

"Doubt you would have known 'im," Porthos muttered as he walked away.

"What are you going to do?" Duponne asked.

"I'm gonna right a wrong," Porthos growled. "Be seein' ya."

"Du Vallon!" the man called; the tone of his voice making Porthos turn;

"He's left handed."

Porthos nodded once before turning and striding from the room.

oOo

Time wasn't on Porthos's side, if the Red Guard knew of this man's crimes and whereabouts. Duponne was right though; they took their own sweet time.

The rain poured down, spilling from the gulleys on the edge of the semi-cobbled street, coating the grimy surface with a mixture of muck and sewerage.

Porthos had been watching the house almost two days.

One candle burned in the window and when that went out, Porthos made his move. Looking around, he crouched and silently picked the lock before walking softly into the dark hall.

The memory of the aftermath of the attack on Athos and d'Artagnan that night ten days ago flooded into his mind.

No-one attacked his brothers and got away with it. He'd had blood under his fingernails for days.

The thought spurred him on as he walked softly down the hall.

He didn't want a discussion.

He didn't want to _understand_.

He'd known too many men like this one.

He wanted to put down a rabid dog.

oOo

The house was silent.

The blow, when it came, glanced off Porthos's shoulder, but threw him off-balance. He pushed off the door frame and pivoted toward the dark shadow in front of him.

Remembering Duponne's warning saved his life.

He crouched and brought his main gauche up on the man's left side catching sight of the sword wielded in his hand.

Slicing upward with all his strength, he felt his blade slice through flesh and bone, hearing the dull thud as the severed hand dropped to the floor. The man's ungodly scream was cut off as blood now streamed from his ruined throat, cut deep and true by Porthos's next thrust. The dying man crumbled to the floor.

Panting, Porthos kicked the man hard in the ribs. He watched as the life blood ran from him; stepping out of the way to avoid desecrating his boots.

Slowly, he took a step back, closed his eyes and _breathed_.

He had his vengeance.

Whether his brothers and his Captain agreed with him, he didn't care. This was the Court's way, ingrained in him from infancy. Honour of a different sort; held worthy for an unworthy man, who had killed with impunity. But also, it was something more; a Musketeer's duty, to avenge his brothers.

He wiped his blade on the man's coat and re sheathed it.

It was over.

Now he just had to get back to the Garrison before his "leave" expired.

 **oOo**

Thanks for reading!

 **A/N:** Some of you may remember Aubin Fabron from my story, "An Unlikely Brotherhood," and if I had a favourite story, I think it would be that one.


	63. Explain!

**A/N:** So, its been a bit heavy here lately, so here is a little more light-hearted Talk for you today, dear readers.

oOo

 **63\. "EXPLAIN!"**

 **All of them:**

"So, tell me again," Athos asked, on the edge of patience. "How did you come by this injury?"

"It wasn't my fault," d'Artagnan muttered, sullenly. "We were in the market. We'd just come off duty and I was trying on some new boots at M. Pelletier's stall."

"'e does have some very nice boots," Porthos nodded, a little wistfully.

"No-one is apportioning blame," Athos sighed, holding up his hand. "Just avail me of the facts."

Athos's eyes flicked from d'Artagnan's foot to the door of the infirmary, no doubt wondering if he could effect a swift departure. The taverns were still open and he was … thirsty.

"In your own time," he added, when no answer was forthcoming. He did, however, detect signs of a hasty swallow, followed by a nervous cough from said injured person.

"Easy," Porthos murmured, glancing at Athos. "Give 'im time."

Athos tore his eyes away from the door and turned slowly toward d'Artagnan. How did he _do_ that, d'Artagnan thought? His whole body and head were in alignment, and the action was slow and deliberate. And then those _eyes_ were on you, and you would say _anything_!

"Time to do what?" Athos replied, while still glaring at d'Artagnan, who was now visibly wilting under its force.

"Depends what you want," Porthos grunted.

"I would like him to _explain_ ," Athos explained stoically, in the face of enduring a dry night. He wondered if he still had a bottle stashed somewhere nearby.

"I believe a pig was involved," Aramis said, as he walked into the room and joined them, rolling up his sleeves.

Athos sat down and rubbed his forehead with his gloved fingers.

"Pigs can be very nasty," Porthos nodded sagely.

"You should know," d'Artagnan hissed. "You were there!"

"Not as close as you," Porthos said, stifling a laugh.

Athos shot him a quelling look, and he quelled.

Porthos held his hands up in surrender. "Sorry," he grunted. It wouldn't do to make Athos more exasperated than he already was.

"So," Aramis said brightly. "Let's look at this porcine wound."

He reached out and peeled the wadding from d'Artagnan's foot, placed there earlier by Porthos when he had brought him in.

Aramis frowned.

He looked at d'Artagnan, who looked at Porthos, who looked at Athos; who glared at Aramis.

"What's this?" Aramis said, wadding in hand, staring at d'Artagnan's foot.

d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably and stared at Porthos.

"Pig injury," Porthos grunted.

Athos leant forward and peered at the exposed foot.

"That is not a bite," he said succinctly. "Explain."

"Nah," Porthos said, suppressing a smile. "You're right, it's not a bite."

"Explain!" Athos repeated.

"S'a burn."

"A burn?" Athos said carefully, cool green eyes sliding back to d'Artagnan.

"It does _look_ like a burn," Aramis admitted, still staring.

He leant forward and joined Athos in peering a little more closely.

He sniffed. Once. Twice. And frowned;

"And, what is this?" he added, running a careful finger over the affected area.

d'Artagnan winced.

They all peered now at Aramis's raised finger.

"Grease?" Athos hazarded a guess.

"S'exactly what it is," Porthos replied, shooting a glance at d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan sighed. "Tell them," he finally said.

Porthos sat down.

"We were on patrol in the market," Porthos began, casting a look at Athos. "Just finished. Just finished our patrol in the market," he added.

" _And_?" Athos prompted, with what Porthos thought was a little more force than was necessary.

"And there were some pigs … and I was 'ungry."

"Porthos, you didn't!" Aramis said, eyes wide.

"What?" Porthos said, staring at a shocked Aramis.

"No!" d'Artagnan cried.

"No!" Porthos agreed, catching on; "I didn't kill it!"

"It was already dead," d'Artagnan replied.

Porthos nodded in agreement. "It was," he confirmed.

"Good grief," Athos groaned. "It gets worse."

"It wasn't my fault. I couldn't 'elp it; I missed breakfast."

"As I recall," Athos declared, "You had six eggs, half a loaf of bread, several slices of ham; several excessively large chunks of cheese, three apples, two flasks of ale and rounded that off by clearing both mine and Aramis's plates."

"And mine," d'Artagnan grimaced. "Can I have some help here?"

Aramis snapped out of the image of the amount of food Porthos had polished off and then forgotten about.

"Of course, sorry!" he murmured, pouring water into a bowl.

"As much as I have no desire to know," Athos started quietly, "Can one of you please enlighten me as to how you obtained this injury FROM A DEAD PIG!" he yelled, all semblance of patience gone.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth, but Porthos stopped him.

"S'Alright," he said, in defeat. "I got this."

Aramis and Athos both sat down expectantly.

"It was the smell," Porthos said. "It got to me."

"Rotting animal flesh can be quite distracting," Aramis agreed, reaching up and patting Porthos's hand.

"What?" Porthos said. "No! It was lovely!"

Aramis looked horrified.

"Porthos, are you quite well?"

d'Artagnan sighed.

"There was a roasting pig, on the next stall," he explained. "He," he added, pointing at Porthos, "couldn't resist it. He reached over and snagged a piece."

All eyes were now turned on Porthos.

"By this time, I had one boot off," d'Artagnan explained.

"'An you were 'opping around a treat," Porthos said, trying to smother a laugh.

"And the spit collapsed," d'Artagnan added.

"Whole thing rolled off the table," Porthos finished innocently, as though he had nothing to do with it.

"And it fell on my foot," d'Artagnan growled.

"Sorry," Porthos grunted.

Silence fell.

Aramis started to laugh.

"Give me strength," Athos said, as he slowly rose and turned. Without a word, he left the room, in the hope no doubt that the nearest tavern was still open.

Behind him, Aramis was still laughing as he reached for a knife.

Shrinking back, d'Artagnan yelled as Aramis started to scrape pork fat from his foot.

"Do you think Serge 'as got any food left?" Porthos said, staring longingly at d'Artagnan's foot. "All this talk of roasting pig has spiked my appetite."

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	64. Being Aramis

**A/N:** This Talk comes about after a prompt from **enjoyedit,** who wanted to see this side of our soldier-medic. I hope it fits the bill.

oOo

 **64\. BEING ARAMIS**

Sometimes, he just needed a minute.

Just a minute.

To allow his hands to still; his mind to settle. His thoughts to clear.

Sometimes, amid the pain and the blood, it was all too much.

He asked too much of himself. But how could he not?

For they looked at him with such _trust_. Sure in his heart and sure in his knowledge.

What had started as a simple interest had turned into something more. It was sometimes a burden so heavy, he could hardly breathe. Because, sometimes, he was all they had.

Decisions had to be made fast.

Impossible choices.

Sometimes he had to choose which one to help first. That was the worst part.

Afterwards, his hands, still when he needed them, would shake once more. When it was over, when he had done all he could, then he would feel as if he was falling apart. Physically; heart beating too fast; skin itching. Muscles and lungs labouring, as if he had fought a great battle.

Once it was over and there was nothing more to do – no more frantic stemming of blood, no more cutting or sewing – his body sometimes betrayed him; reminding him that he was human.

Just a man.

A man who loved too much, perhaps.

Sometimes, his faith in himself was strong and took him places he would have otherwise dared not go; to dig a little deeper to extract an errant musket ball. To try an unknown herb, because there was nothing else he could think of.

Sometimes he would hold a hand long into the night, because he had nothing else to offer.

His self-doubt could, at times, be overwhelming; his habit of running his hand through his hair the only thing that may have betrayed his terror. For he was adept in schooling his features at such times; slipping behind the mask. Then, he could rival Athos for stoicism.

Did they know? Perhaps. Yes, if the slight tilts of head in acknowledgement, or the huge hugs his received were any gauge.

Sometimes, though, while trying to save a life, he bore the brunt of their anger; knowing it was only the pain and exhaustion talking. And perhaps, of course, the fear.

Aristocratic curses and Court of Miracles slurs could be forgiven, but still stung.

The tight grip on his wrist; fingers that had to be prised off. The sight of pain in those held dear almost as terrible as enduring it oneself. Too often he would trade places in the blink of an eye, if he could.

The cajoling, beseeching and finally, ordering, to keep someone still. If that fails, the careful use of opiates.

The terror and the toll of it all.

Sometimes, he could not sleep; long after he had exhausted himself having done all he could.

Sometimes food turned to ashes in his mouth.

Sometimes his head felt as if it would burst as he wracked his brain for a treatment. For a procedure. For something he had heard maybe long ago from a healer, or a simple peasant woman, that would save his brother. If only he could remember!

Sometimes, it was all too much.

And sometimes, it was not enough.

Sometimes, he hated the position he had put himself in.

For this was his own doing.

Sometimes he _was_ all they had.

Sometimes, just sometimes, when he thought all was lost and their brotherhood would be broken, he would think he may not be able to do this again. And then, by some miracle, all would be well. And, of course, he would do it all again, without question.

As his heart pumped and his lungs refused to work, and he held his brother's life in his hands and felt that first flicker of hope - sometimes it was the best feeling in the world. When familiar eyes open and silent thanks are expressed … such a feeling he cannot describe.

Then, the world is new again, like God's First Day.

It cost him much but paid him back a hundredfold.

He was good at what he did, even if sometimes he hated the responsibility. He worked hard to perfect his knowledge and hone his skills. Finding the right herb, the right compound.

Soldiering and healing.

Despite the terror and the toll, when he saw the look in their eyes ...

When he knew that _this day_ , they would not be parted, because he knew what to do, and he knew what to use.

He had the best of brothers.

Despite the terror and the toll, he had the best of both worlds.

He did not discriminate. Someone in need was just that, were they a brigand or a Red Guard.

"Nothing that suffers can pass without merit in the sight of God."

His mantra. His prayer. He tried to live by it. Often, it was hard, but how could he live with himself if he did not?

As a boy, he had once picked up a songbird that had flown into a door. He had sat with it, cupped in his hands, saying a silent prayer, wishing it well on its journey to whatever afterlife awaited it. Suddenly, its small black eyes opened and its feathers fluffed. To his utter surprise, it stretched its wings and flew off, his hands raising automatically to help it on its way.

From that moment, something took root in him. Never give up. There is always hope. He would not believe otherwise after that small bird took flight. He would not believe otherwise until a heart stopped beating and the skin grew cold. Until someone pulled him off and even then, he would fight to remain, just a little longer, just a little longer; thinking of that bird, so long ago.

Life was, after all, sacred.

He would always believe that.

And so, he would continue to heed the call.

It exhausted him, it exhilarated him. It liberated him.

Despite the terror. Despite the toll.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

 **A/N:** Those young hands holding that little bird were mine, many years ago. What a magical moment that was.


	65. Tell Me What To Do

**A/N:** This is a stand alone chapter but it's a further exploration of what "Being Aramis" costs and also his brother's realisation of what he gains from his dual role.

oOo

 **65\. TELL ME WHAT TO DO**

"Aramis, what do I do?" Athos urged his friend.

When no response came, Athos tried again.

"Aramis, _open your eyes._ "

Sick as he was, they needed his help.

"Tell me what to do," Athos repeated, his voice closer now. "We need you, brother."

Aramis rallied at that, as Athos knew he would.

Aramis had watched as the tradesman was brought into the Infirmary, but Athos did not know if he had registered what was happening.

The man had fallen through the stable roof, trying to fix some tiles that had been dislodged in the recent storm. The same storm that Aramis had been caught up in overnight. He had been brought back to the garrison by Porthos and Athos after a long, frantic search, but it had taken five long hours to warm him up and now he was sick, his lungs rattling as he breathed.

He had been sleeping and Athos was loathe to wake him but the man was bleeding from a gaping thigh wound. Athos and Porthos of course, knew basic aid, but there was always the doubt that help could cause actual harm and so Athos took the decision to try and get some words of wisdom from his friend.

As Aramis tried to focus, Athos thought how they relied on him and how it must feel, to be so relied upon in times of need.

"Do you think we expect too much of 'im?" Porthos had asked.

It was a thought they had all had over the years, their Captain included.

"Yes," Athos replied, simply, as he stood over Aramis now.

"We could learn a bit more?" Porthos said.

Athos had looked at him as if he was mad.

"You and I both know some things are a vocation. Do you think we could match him for stitches?" he had replied.

"Or for all the things he knows," Porthos sighed, with a sad nod of his head.

"Or for the things he has read," Athos finished, scanning some of the tomes on the shelves. "And continues to read."

"You are stuck with me," came a small voice from the cot.

Athos smiled and looked down.

Taking his hand, he took in his brother's flushed face; thinking his eyes were brighter. Not knowing if that was a good sign or not.

"Yes, it seems we are," Athos said quietly.

"Tie something above the wound, it will slow the bleeding," Aramis said, releasing Athos's hand and pushing himself up on his pillows.

Athos looked around wildly before Porthos pulled off his belt. He had seen this before, but would never dare attempt it.

"This?" Porthos asked, holding up the belt for Aramis to see.

"Perfect," Arams whispered. "Tie it tight."

Athos slipped the belt behind the man's knee and pulled it tight. The man screamed and Athos placed his hand firmly on his chest.

"Be still, dammit," he said tersely.

" _Athos_ ," Aramis scolded, weakly.

Athos cast a glare his way and saw the look of admonishment Aramis aimed at him.

"Even sick, he chastises me," Athos grumbled.

Behind him he heard Porthos huff out a laugh.

It was a little lightness in a heated situation.

The man groaned and Athos focussed once more.

"What do I do?" he asked, his words clipped.

There was no reply. Aramis had closed his eyes.

Porthos went over and gently shook him awake.

"Sorry, brother, just a little while longer," he said gently, as Aramis opened bleary eyes.

"Is it still bleeding?" Aramis enquired weakly.

"Not so much," Athos grunted.

"Clean it," came the quiet voice behind, his voice hoarse.

"Don't you start coughin'" Porthos growled, sitting next to him now and pouring some water.

"Wasn't going to," Aramis replied, taking a sip. "Though it doesn't do to remind me of that possibility," he added, ruefully.

"Sorry," Porthos mumbled, setting the cup down.

Meanwhile, Athos was pouring wine over the man's leg, peering closely at the wound.

"What do you see?" Aramis ventured.

"Nothing, apart from …." he waved his hand over the bloody mess but looked up at the man's frightened face and thought better than describe it. "Seems clear," he finished.

"Porthos," Aramis whispered softly, his eyes closed now. "The thread."

Porthos jumped up and collected the needle and thread from the table. At least they had prepared it, Aramis thought with a smile. They knew what to do, they just needed reassurance.

"Small stitches, Athos, close together, if you please."

Athos turned and glared at his sick brother.

Aramis opened his eyes and turned his head, feeling the heat of his stare.

"Remember d'Artagnan's first wound?" he said, giving Athos a small smile, while stretching his thumb and first finger apart, separated by a distance not appropriate for a neat scar, which as it turned out, it was not.

Athos frowned. "Point taken," he grunted.

Bending over the patient, Athos got to work, while Porthos held the man down.

Aramis managed to watch, fascinated to see it from a different viewpoint.

Athos was sweating. He had sewn stitches since but never like this. It would be easy to keep shouting across to Aramis for reassurance, but really, he should not. The man was sick and so he bent to his task, keeping his lips tightly closed.

How must it feel to be Aramis, he thought? It was something he rarely thought about; too caught up in the action of the moment. Afterwards, they would sit and talk, but by then, they had moved on. He had not thought, until this moment, that perhaps, when Aramis was alone, he would take it to pieces in his mind, waiting while he settled.

It was a sobering thought, Athos mused, as he pulled the thread through now.

"I am sorry," he suddenly found himself saying to the man beneath his needle; finding a modicum of sympathy that he could express.

The man met his eyes.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"No need," Athos replied, not looking at him; intent on his task and his breath held for long moments.

"There is every need, Monsieur," the man said, tears leaking from his eyes; every muscle tense.

An unfamiliar warmth spread through Athos's chest.

To be thanked for hurting someone was a new experience for him. He glanced at Aramis, who he found was watching him, propped against his pillow.

It was a knowing look.

Aramis knew what he was feeling. He knew it was a new feeling for Athos, who had a heart of gold hidden in the fortress of his making. He knew that Athos could be relied upon to go beyond his normal experience in such times of crisis. Porthos too.

It was sometimes just that question of reassurance.

Tomorrow, or the next day, it may be Aramis who sought it, and Athos who obliged.

"Tell me what to do," was easily conveyed with a look, or a touch.

Words were not always needed.

A friendship like theirs was generous and given freely. Sometimes at personal cost.

Today, the man who fell from the roof was the beneficiary and he would keep his leg, because someone dared to ask a sick friend for reassurance; and the sick friend had gladly obliged.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	66. My Tryst, My Wine, My Dinner

**66\. MY TRYST, MY WINE, MY DINNER**

 **Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan:**

Aramis curled the ends of his moustache carefully as he stood on the landing. He carefully rubbed his right boot against his left calf, and then repeated the action with the other one. Then, he straightened his doublet and smoothed his eyebrows with a slick flick of his finger.

He had been looking forward to this liaison for several days.

Beyond the door was the most charming, beautiful woman in Paris, and she wanted him, according to the note that had found its way into his possession.

Knocking lightly on the door he heard a low refrain from inside.

"Enter, M. Aramis."

 _Excellent_ , he thought to himself; she was expecting him.

Smiling, he gently opened the door and pushed it open, whilst leaning nonchalantly on the door frame; his hat held to his chest.

The delightful creature was sitting at her table.

She turned slowly around.

Aramis dropped his hat and took a step back, a look of horror on his face.

The fair young lady who peered back at him was at least eighty years old, with only what appeared to be two teeth in her head.

He took a step back as she threw back her head and cackled.

oOo

Athos settled down in his rooms and pulled the cork from the bottle. He needed this, after the day he had had. Taking a healthy slug, his senses were momentarily flooded; not in a good way. He spat the liquid out, spraying it across the room.

Upending the bottle and pouring the clear contents onto the floor, he let out an angry curse. Or two.

 _Water?!_

Moments later the bottle shattered as it was thrown across the room.

oOo

Porthos strode up to the bar.

When he ordered a double portion of mutton stew, he was told by the landlord that there was no stew left, so he reluctantly settled for bread and cold meat; the only alternative.

Once settled into a game of cards though, he was puzzled to see mutton stew coming from the kitchen and into the eager hands of some of his fellow card players, at the very table he now occupied.

Distracted momentarily by the lovely aroma, his stomach growled, but he justified his loss by thinking it was one of the last to be served.

However, during the next hour, stew after stew came from the kitchen and the smell was driving him insane; so much so that he lost several games.

His bread and cold meat had arrived and he had looked at it in dismay, it was a small portion for a man of his stature and would hardly touch the sides.

"Sorry, Monsieur," the landlord said when he asked whether perhaps they had made some more? "Cook has gone for the night."

However, half an hour later, more bowls were appearing.

"What the hell?" Porthos muttered.

Thoroughly confused but not wanting to make a scene or call the landlord of his favourite tavern a damnable liar, he threw his hand in and walked away from the tavern, to seek sustenance from Serge, who hopefully was preparing the bread for the morning and may have some leftovers from the evening meal he had forgone in preference to his visit to the tavern.

oOo

Meantime, Athos pulled the corks of his three remaining bottles.

All contained water.

Short of smashing them all on the wall in frustration, he pulled on his boots and cloak and trudged off into the freezing night to find wine in one of the taverns close by, if they were still open.

They were not.

Furious and in a very bad temper, he walked back to his rooms. At least he would wake with a clear head in the morning but the mystery completely baffled him. Had he been sold water instead of wine? He would certainly take it up with the tavern owner who had sold him these bottles.

oOo

Back in the Garrison, d'Artagnan sat and listened to his friends complaints. Nothing had gone right for them during the last few days. Aramis was still seething about being deceived but equally embarrassed about his reaction to the lady, who seemed a very nice old woman …

Athos had had to go out and replenish his stock and had insisted on trying each bottle before he took them away, much to the annoyance of the landlord, who had almost reached for the club he kept under the bar at the insinuation he had cheated the Musketeer.

Porthos had had second helpings of everything, since missing his mutton stew and had made a point of visiting the kitchen of the tavern to ensure there was ample supplies before he had put his next order in.

 **One week later:**

After muster, Porthos had reached out and taken hold of d'Artagnan's arm before he could disappear, as he had a habit of doing lately.

"Meetin'" he said. "Infirmary. Ten minutes."

"Oh?" d'Artagnan had replied, eyebrows raised. "Yeah. It's important," Porthos replied. "Don't be late."

The look on Porthos's face ensured that he would not, indeed, be late.

Ten minutes later, he strolled into the Infirmary. The door at the end of the long room was open and he could see Aramis inside sitting on the table, and so he made he way across, whistling to himself.

Once inside, he saw that Athos was there too, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. Aramis was deep in concentration on his perch, peeling an apple. As he crossed the threshold, Athos spoke quietly;

"Close the door."

d'Artagnan did so; wondering where Porthos was.

"Take a seat, my young friend," Aramis said quietly, without looking up.

d'Artagnan crossed to the cot and sat, just as the door opened and Porthos entered.

"Strange things 'ave been 'appening to us," Porthos began closing the door and leaning his bulk against it.

He nodded at the others, and they each began once more to recount their tales of Aramis's tryst, Athos's wine and Porthos's dinner.

When they finished, all went quiet.

"Confess," Athos said, pinning him with a cold, hard stare.

"What?" d'Artagnan yelped.

Try as he may, though, d'Artagnan finally caved in to the continued glare of the three of them.

"How did you know it was me?!" he said, suddenly feeling a cold wind blowing through the room.

"Easy, you noddle," Porthos laughed. "Nothin' 'appened to you. Just us three. Wasn't 'ard to figure it out."

To be fair, once they had realised the culprit, they were impressed he had managed to pull it all off, but they had no intention of telling _him_ that.

d'Artagnan groaned.

"You always have your fun at my expense," d'Artagnan said. "I thought I would return the favour."

A look of triumph crossed his face then, emboldened by his motive and its success, up to this point.

He stood and strode across the room. Time to leave; it was a little oppressive.

"It's called " _Getting_ _m_ _y_ _o_ _wn_ _b_ _ack_ ," he said with a flourish, throwing open the door to make his exit.

That triumphant exit though was accompanied by a loud crash as he fell head first into the adjoining room.

"That's called, " _The_ _W_ _ire across the_ _D_ _oor_ " joke, Porthos boomed.

Face down on the flagstones, d'Artagnan groaned and curled his fists.

"Are we even?" he asked weakly, though he thought he knew the answer.

"Nah," Porthos replied, towering over him, with Athos and Aramis spilling past him. "Just got started."

"You are in a _lot_ of trouble," Aramis added, casually, dropping the apple core on his head.

Athos stepped over him. "You won't see us coming," he said, with that air of menace he reserved for villains, as he strode out of the infirmary; closely followed by Porthos and Aramis; both laughing loudly and slapping each other on the back.

"Be afraid, d'Artagnan," he heard Athos yell, as the outer door slammed shut and he was left alone, on the cold infirmary floor.

"Perhaps I did overplay my hand," he muttered, picking up the apple core and throwing it across the room.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	67. The Toss of a Coin

**A/N:**

It is exactly one year today since I first posted "The Spaniard," the first of my Infirmary Talks. In that year, these little tales have had 66,764 views and 743 reviews. It's all down to you dear readers, and I sincerely thank every one of you.

I had never written anything before I first posted here in October 2016; spurred on by a terrific show and its enthusiastic, welcoming fans. Since then, I have archived 487,984 words on this site. I tell you this, as I cannot quite believe it. I used to balk at a 3,000 word essay!

This is a site that welcomes people like me and where readers reach out to encourage and befriend. In return, I will attempt to forge on. So here is Talk 67 (!) and I have at least one more in the pipleine.

Many, many thanks to you all. I will raise a toast to you all tonight.

 **oOo**

 **67\. The Toss of a Coin**

 **Porthos and Athos:**

Athos stood quietly in the doorway of the small room.

It had been a morning of change and contrast.

A morning that had started, as all mornings do, with light and promise.

A morning that had worn into routine and tedium and finally, into shock, sadness and grief.

Porthos had his back to him. There was a tension in his broad shoulders, but it did not hold him upright. He was staring out of the window, his feet planted squarely on the floor, but Athos could see he was holding onto the windowsill for support.

His eyes drifted from Porthos to the cot and the still form of Musketeer Jean-Pierre Leveque, covered with a crisp white sheet.

"They are ready for him," he said quietly, not wishing to disturb Porthos's thoughts, though he was sure Porthos knew of his presence.

It was a toss of the coin as to how this would go.

At first, he thought Porthos had not heard him. He waited; leaning on the door frame now, in need of a little support himself. The silence was deafening, but he would not break it. Time was something Leveque no longer had, but he would give his friend that commodity if he needed it.

Finally, Porthos spoke, so quietly Athos did not hear, and so he took a step into the room. Just one.

And waited once more.

"Do you believe in fate, Athos?" he said, a little louder now; his back still to the room – knowing that it was he. Knowing that if anyone would be honest with an answer, it would be Athos.

"No," Athos said simply.

He saw Porthos nod his head; heard the low rumble of acknowledgement.

And then, he slowly turned.

Athos straightened instinctively – for Porthos looked _advers_ _a_ _rial_. His eyes bored into Athos and Athos watched him, carefully;

 _The imaginary coin rose into the air, turning, edge over edge. It reached the pinnacle of its trajectory; slowly tipping in a gentle arc as it began to lose momentum, before descending …_ Athos was not a betting man.

 _The coin dropped_ … and Porthos deflated.

Athos watched as Porthos turned his head and looked at the covered form laid out on the cot, whose company he had silently kept for the last two hours. Leveque was only some twenty two or so years, but he would not grow old. Cut down this morning whilst under Porthos's command.

Under Porthos's care.

Porthos leaned back on the windowsill and looked down at his feet and Athos relaxed, minutely, tilting his head on one side to further observe his friend; his brother.

"They are ready for him," Athos said again but Porthos cut him off, without looking up; but with a hard edge to his voice that Athos knew not to challenge;

"When I was a little 'un," he said, firmly, "I used to scamper across the rooftops in the Court. Never gave it a thought."

He stopped and Athos saw where this was going. This was about chance. This was about a split second where a life can change, for good or for bad. Mainly, though, this was about allowing Porthos to order his thoughts.

"Never came close to fallin'," Porthos was saying, before he raised his head and looked Athos squarely in the eye. "Though, I knew a few that did."

"Well," Athos said carefully as he crossed to the table in the corner of the small room and took a seat. "We have all had narrow escapes."

Porthos sighed and raised his head to the ceiling, pressing his lips together in thought but Athos could sense the anger still simmering.

When Porthos finally met his eye once more, Athos pushed a chair out from beneath the table with a careful flick of his boot. It scraped across the floor; the sound both irritating and comforting in equal measure. It was an invitation.

Porthos looked across at Leveque once more. The sheet was pulled up to his throat, obscuring his fatal injury, but his face in repose was untouched and peaceful; the essence of the boy remaining.

"Please," Athos murmured, for Porthos would not respond to an order here. "Sit."

After a few moments, Porthos pushed off the wall and walked towards him, eyes on the chair. Dropping heavily, his arm came to rest on the table top; fingers curled into a tight fist.

Quietly, Athos laid his arm on the table and curled his own hand into a fist.

"Did you 'ave any narrow escapes when you were growin' up?" Porthos asked, so softly Athos barely heard him. His body looked painfully tense once more.

"Yes," Athos replied, equally softly. "I nearly drowned in the family pond."

The exchange of information hung in the air and Athos saw how Porthos released two of his fingers, laying them straight on the table.

Very slowly, Athos mirrored the action.

"Your brother?" Porthos asked, looking up and locking eyes with Athos.

Athos huffed.

"He would not have dared," he replied, with a small smile.

Porthos returned it; a shared response. _A beginning_.

"My father," Athos offered, unfurling the rest of his fingers.

Without looking, Athos could see that the honest revelation had caused Porthos to also do the same.

Porthos raised his eyebrows, seeking an explanation.

"His way of teaching me to swim," Athos replied; slowly sitting back in his chair.

Porthos mulled it over and a frown creased his forehead. And then, he sat back too.

Athos crossed his feet at the ankles.

"Did it work?" Porthos asked.

"After a fashion," Athos replied. "Though my style left something to be desired."

Porthos nodded slowly, crossing his own feet.

"You swim fine," he replied, gruffly.

"Now, perhaps. But it was not the best way to introduce a child to the concept."

Athos straightened his fingers on the table, running them over the grain in the wood and after a few moments, Porthos unconsciously followed.

"You could have died," Porthos offered.

"You could have fallen," Athos replied.

Athos stilled his hand, laying it flat on the table, his other arm draped on his thigh, while Porthos thought about it some more.

"On those occasions in The Court," Athos continued, "It was down to the toss of a coin as to whether your foot slipped."

Porthos hummed, lost in a memory of his small tribe of unruly vagabond friends, daring each other to go higher; jump further.

" _This_ morning," Athos said quietly, "It was down to the toss of a coin that Jean-Pierre was standing in that place, at that time, when the bandits fired."

"But you don't believe in fate," Porthos said.

"Fate is something we have no control over," Athos replied. "Sometimes, such occurrences are down to pure coincidence," Athos replied.

"Or bad luck," Porthos murmured. He had had plenty of that in his life.

"Or bad luck," Athos agreed, quietly.

What happened this morning was not Porthos's fault, but he would not tell him that, for Porthos would challenge it. What happened was not fate, for in agreeing to that, Athos would set Porthos on a life course deemed to be mapped out and therefore impossible to steer away from or quantify. What happened rested on a toss of a coin. For that is life.

Both men were now sitting perfectly still. Slowly, Athos had guided Porthos away from his anger and his guilt; mirroring each position of a hand, a foot; drawing him into a state of peace and acceptance with subtle movements and gentle, honest words.

"They are ready for him," Athos said once more, but now, it was as if Porthos heard for the first time. The final journey awaited Jean-Pierre Leveque. He would be taken to their chapel for preparation in readiness for onward passage to their cemetery.

Athos slowly uncrossed his feet and stood, and Porthos did the same.

"Let us take him together," he said.

Porthos nodded; the heaviness had left him, now that he had a duty to perform.

"Why did your father do that?" Porthos asked as Athos retrieved the stretcher he had left in the corridor.

Athos shrugged his shoulders lazily, the stretcher now held upright; braced on the floor.

"It was his way," he replied. "However, I would not recommend it as a teaching method."

"Don't think I learned much running around rooftops," Porthos replied.

"We learned to survive," Athos said, clapping Porthos on the shoulder.

"Yeah," Porthos smiled. "We did, didn't we."

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

Athos's treatment by his father's hand is alluded to in Chapter 27 "To Trust Again."


	68. Scarlatina

**68\. Scarlatina**

 **Athos and Porthos:**

"He's dead," Athos yelled, before removing his head from the sewer and standing up.

They had tracked the man to the edge of the river and watched as he had dropped down out of sight. Athos had been the first there and had lost no time in dismounting and making his way to the gaping hole on the bank and dropping down onto his belly to peer inside.

They had been after this man for weeks and none of them wanted him to elude them again. This time, at least, they had put a musket ball in his back. The wonder was, how he had survived the ride to the river and the drop into the sewer. It appeared he had not.

Athos was back on his feet in minutes, as the others caught up and dismounted.

They would leave the body there. It would be flushed from the sewer into the Seine soon enough, where it could be extracted more easily.

Athos had taken great gulps of air to get the stench from his nostrils.

He had doused his head in the water Porthos had thrust into his hands, thoroughly soaking his hair before pushing it back from his forehead.

In hindsight, it was not enough.

oOo

Two days later, as Athos sat at their table in the yard with a bottle of wine in front of him, Aramis noticed two bright spots of high colour on his cheeks and had quietly taken the untouched bottle from his hand.

"Is it not palatable, my friend?" he asked.

"It is difficult to swallow," Athos had replied, not meeting his eyes.

Later, he was seen to be shivering, despite the early afternoon sun.

When Aramis cautiously approached him, he noted the beginning of a rash on his neck.

Athos refused to open his mouth for the medic, merely turning his back, picking up his wine and taking himself to a table far away from the others, where he sat with his back to them.

He continued to resist their overtures and they had eventually left him, though Aramis had gone quietly to the Infirmary to prepare one of the small rooms. He had gone to the laundry to tell Madame Crecy they would need a supply of sheets to be made ready. Finally, he had gone to his Captain to tell him that in all probability, he would be a man down before this day was done.

Then he had returned to the courtyard, where he had taken his seat with Porthos and d'Artagnan, across the yard from Athos, who continued to sit, nursing his cup of untouched wine, his other hand gripping the neck of the bottle.

Treville quietly took up his seat at the table on his balcony and they all watched; Porthos in particular.

Finally, by late afternoon, Athos raised his head.

Aramis slowly stood and locked eyes with him.

Holding his hand out, he motioned for the others to stay, before crossing the short distance to the table that Athos had taken far from the central courtyard area.

Reaching the table, he stood waiting.

Athos gave a single dip of his head and slowly rose, before leaning on the table and stepping over the bench. Picking up the bottle, he walked around the table to join Aramis, though he took a step back and ignored the proffered hand.

"Better not," he said softly.

Aramis stepped aside and allowed Athos to lead the way to the infirmary, which he did with his head held high, watched by his Captain from above and his friends, who now followed along behind Aramis.

Once inside, it was a similar story.

Athos sat at the table in the small, windowless room; his hand resting on the neck of the bottle.

Aramis sat across the room on the newly made bed, soon to be a battleground.

Porthos and d'Artagnan remained in the large room.

Steady footsteps announced the arrival of Captain Treville, who Aramis met on the threshold.

"Dr Lemay has been called. I trust you to keep everyone safe," he said quietly, looking past him at his Lieutenant, who was still sitting, head down, at the table within.

"Yes, Captain," Aramis replied.

He stood in the doorway of the small room, watching his friend, but leaving him be.

oOo

When Treville had gone, Aramis joined Porthos and d'Artagnan in the larger room. Behind them, the door was suddenly firmly closed and they turned to look at the barrier between them.

Porthos drew them aside.

"Lemay may 'ave a fancy name for what ails Athos," Porthos said, "But in the Court, we called it sewer fever. Though we didn't 'ave sewers in the Court, if you get my meanin.'"

"What is it?" d'Artagnan ventured.

He was fairly new to Paris. He had grown up on his family's farm in Gascony and had been shocked at the filth and stench in the city streets. He had consequently seen illnesses that arose as a result, but had not encountered any personally. He now turned to Aramis to enlighten him, but it was Porthos who spoke.

"I 'ad this when I was a boy," Porthos said quietly. "It was a long time ago but I reckon it won't get me as bad a second time."

"What are you saying?"Aramis said, taking hold of his arm.

"I'm sayin' I'll take care of 'im."

Aramis had argued of course, but Porthos was adamant.

Aramis looked from him to d'Artagnan.

"We wait for Dr Lemay," he said, his eyes turning onto the closed door. "Until he arrives, we can get things ready."

"Will he be alright?" d'Artagnan asked, turning his back to the small room, in fear of Athos hearing them, though the door was still firmly closed and he had shown no interest in them.

Only Aramis remained to answer his question, for Porthos had already left.

oOo

 **Treville's office:**

Porthos had headed straight to Treville's office.

The Captain had been expecting Aramis and was surprised to see Porthos filling his doorway, scowling.

"We don't need Lemay to tell us what this is," he said, as Treville waved him in. "I _know_ what it is."

"What are you saying?" Treville asked gruffly.

"I'm sayin' I'll look after 'im. d'Artagnan's got his whole career ahead of him, Captain," Porthos replied. "Aramis, he's the best marksman in the regiment. And Athos, he's your best swordsman. Me, you got from the infantry ..."

He left the rest unsaid, but Treville got the point. Which was why he became almost apoplectic with rage.

"You are not expendable, Porthos!" he shouted, leaping to his feet.

Porthos straightened his shoulders in the face of Treville's anger.

"And neither is Athos," he replied.

Treville sighed as he rubbed his hand tiredly over his jaw.

"You have experience of this, you say?" he asked.

"Yes," Porthos nodded. "My mother."

"Your mother?" Treville said, quieter now.

"Her last illness," Porthos replied, watching his Captain; knowing the effect his words would have. "I was sick too, apparently, but I was stronger."

"You were only four years old when your mother died," Treville countered.

"S'right," Porthos nodded slowly. "I was still stronger."

Treville rubbed his hand across his face. The guilt he felt over his part in Porthos and his mother being abandoned in the Court of Miracles was ever-present; the stuff of some of his worst nightmares. More often now, he was reminded that the one positive thing to come out of that terrible time was here, standing before him. Tall, strong and incredibly proud.

"Alright," Treville finally conceded. "But we listen to what Dr Lemay has to say. And Aramis stays."

"Outside the room," Porthos growled.

"Outside the room," Treville agreed, wearily.

Porthos turned and made for the door, only to be stopped by Treville's brusque voice;

"Porthos ..."

Porthos turned, waiting.

"Thank you," Treville said softly.

"Don't thank me yet," Porthos grunted. "I don't know if I can get 'im through this. He's got to fight."

"You can give him a chance," Treville replied.

"If I could have stopped 'im sticking his 'ead down that sewer, I would ave," Porthos said quietly, staring past Treville. "Sometimes, he's a bit faster on 'is feet."

"That's not your fault," Treville replied. "Someone had to, or we would have been looking for that man for weeks, fate unknown. As it is, his body has yet to wash up, but we know he is dead and can stop looking, thanks to Athos."

oOo

Back in the room, Porthos pushed the table in front of the door. If they had to speak, it would be through the small space that he allowed between the open door and the edge of the table.

Seeing what he was doing and hearing from Porthos that the room was out of bounds to him and d'Artagnan, Aramis went straight to Treville's office, hurriedly climbing the stairs. His Commanding Officer was expecting him and it came as no surprise that Aramis was in a foul temper.

"Captain, this is not right!" he said vehemently, as he pushed through the door without knocking.

Treville pointed at a chair, but Aramis remained standing.

"He's persuaded you, hasn't he?!" he said angrily, leaning on Treville's desk and confronting him.

"He has _convinced_ me," Treville replied, tersely. "And no, it is _not_ right, but it is what it is. You and d'Artagnan both stay on the other side of the door. I made Porthos that promise. He deserves that."

Aramis stared at him, desperate to argue, but seeing he had been backed into a corner.

"You cannot expect me to stand and watch," he said, raking his hand through his unruly hair.

"I don't," Treville replied, coming around the front of the desk and clapping Aramis on the shoulder. "I expect you to help."

"How?" Aramis said, stepping in closely and dipping his head, "Porthos will not allow it."

"From outside the room, Aramis," Treville replied. "Do you think Porthos can fetch and carry as well as look after him? He believes he has some resistance to this ailment. Just … have his back."

After he had absorbed Treville's last four words, some of the tension drained from Aramis's face. "I can do that," he murmured.

"Good," Treville nodded. "I will take you at your word. I will speak to Serge and Madame Crecy. You will need food, firewood and clean linen. And make another bed available in that room," he added. "I doubt Porthos will sleep but he does need somewhere to rest."

Aramis nodded and turned quickly to leave.

"Aramis?" Treville said quietly.

Aramis turned.

"Captain?"

"I am trusting you to comply with Porthos's wishes and to help them both."

"You have my word," Aramis said. "But I don't understand. Why Porthos?"

"He has knowledge of this," Treville replied. "More than we knew."

Aramis took a step forward, but Treville held up his hand.

"It is his tale to tell."

"But," Aramis asked, "It was important enough for you to concur with his wishes?"

"Completely," Treville replied. "Keep me informed. I am trusting you to keep yourselves well," he said. "You and d'Artagnan's safety is also part of Porthos's strategy."

"Yes, Captain," Aramis said. "Thank you."

Treville looked up warily. "For what?"

"For giving us all the chance to help each other," Aramis replied. "If Athos is to succumb to this," he said, faltering, "We will know that we all did our best."

"Let us hope it's good enough," Treville murmured. "How is he now?"

Aramis rubbed his hand over his jaw.

"He is at the bad tempered stage," he smiled.

He had left Athos eyeing Porthos suspiciously. He knew anger would follow, once he knew what Porthos's intentions were. He also knew that he would fight them, trying to keep them away, but at some point, the illness would render him incapable of stopping them.

And then, his life would be in Porthos's hands.

oOo

Aramis was determined as he strode back to the Infirmary. There was much to be done if they were to help Porthos care for Athos. Whatever had put Porthos in this frame of mind, it was with the hope that he had something to offer, not just a wish to sacrifice himself to bloodymindedness; for Porthos could be as self-sacrificing as the rest of them. He had said he had knowledge of this illness and if that was the case, he was their best chance, for they were all in this together, even if there would be a door and Porthos's strong will between them.

On his return, he walked into the infirmary to d'Artagnan's frown.

The door was closed and there were loud voices emanating from behind it. d'Artagnan was standing staring at the closed door, fingers tucked under his arms, as if to warm himself, although there was a fine fire in the grate and plenty of water waiting to be boiled.

Aramis's pace slowed as he listened to the raging argument behind the closed door.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Porthos dragged the table in front of the door," d'Artagnan explained. "When Athos realised what he was doing, he put up a fight."

"Of course he did," Aramis said, with a sad smile. "But he is no match for Porthos's strength."

"That didn't stop him," d'Artagnan muttered.

Inside the room, there was the sound of something being thrown. They could hear Athos yelling, but Porthos's response was quieter.

"How can he yell like that with a swollen throat?" Aramis sighed.

"Glad I'm on the outside," d'Artagnan said, sitting heavily on the nearest cot.

It grew quiet then, followed by the sound of a hacking cough. d'Artagnan got up, but Aramis put his hand on his shoulder.

"We are to stay outside," he said, firmly.

"What?" d'Artagnan replied, confused.

"Porthos's wishes. Treville's orders," Aramis replied.

"Surely they can't expect us to …?"

"They do. Most definitely," Aramis confirmed.

"And you agreed?"

"Porthos needs our help," Aramis said, before looking around the room, seeing the fire blazing and the water ready to boil. "You have already started, I see."

"Will it get worse?" d'Artagnan whispered.

"Oh, yes," Aramis said, sinking down onto a cot. "Porthos holds his life in his hands."

"What is it?"

Of course, Aramis had had his suspicions from the first.

"What Porthos calls "sewer fever," he said, "I believe is "scarlatina."

d'Artagnan frowned and shook his head, impatiently.

"It is a scourge that has rampaged throughout Europe for centuries," Aramis explained, gently. "It is as contagious as it is deadly."

When d'Artagnan did not respond, Aramis clarified.

"Of all of us, Porthos may have some resistance. He came from the Court of Miracles. You, and I, and Athos were a little better protected from nature's worst excesses. He now seeks to protect us. He will not see us sacrifice ourselves."

"And you are alright with this?" d'Artagnan asked, as realisation began to set in.

"Let us see what the good doctor says. But yes, I am alright with it. Up to a point," Aramis said.

d'Artagnan waited, but Aramis said no more.

oOo

 **Earlier:**

"What are you doing?" Athos growled, as Porthos dragged the table over to effectively barricade the door from the inside.

"Takin' care of you," Porthos grunted.

"What are you talking about?" Athos said, looking horrified. "Just leave me, Porthos!"

Porthos ignored him, as he pushed the table against the door, before dragging it back a little and opening the door to judge the space he would have to interact with Aramis and d'Artagnan. Nodding to himself, he turned to face his friend and leant on the table at his back.

"You and me, we are goin' to be spendin' some time together," he said, folding his arms. He had expected this and was well prepared. Athos's anger would be intense once he realised what Porthos had planned; what his friends had ultimately agreed upon and what his Captain had sanctioned.

To be the centre of all this was anathema to Athos. He would be enraged. But also, he would be incensed that his friends would put themselves at risk in this way.

"Before you blow a blood vessel," Porthos said quietly, "I have some knowledge of this. I've had this myself, when I was a young 'un. Though I don't remember. But, I reckon it won't get me as bad a second time around."

Athos gaped at him.

His own upbringing had given him no insight into what Porthos had endured as a child in that place, but he had gleaned from the odd campsite conversation some of the worst. But also, some of the best. Porthos had a strong sense of justice; an empathy for the disenfranchised. A focussed mind, once made up, and a deep bond with those he trusted. That included laying down his life for his brothers. They would all do that, Athos knew, but the fact he now seemed to be on the receiving end was too overwhelming to even contemplate.

And so his anger, misplaced as he knew it was, boiled over.

The notion that he was the catalyst for what may possibly be Porthos's last decision, was unbearable.

"No!" he whispered, backing away. "Porthos, no."

Porthos merely watched him. He knew this would be the second act of their play. The first had been getting Athos into this room, which he had done himself, surprisingly with little resistance; though he probably believed he was going into quarantine alone.

"We're in this together, Athos," Porthos said quietly, his voice low, but as strong and sharp as any steel blade.

 _Suddenly, there he was. Athos in all his fury; backed into a corner but not going down without a fight._

He grabbed a chair in his anger and threw it at the wall.

"Get out!" he yelled, his eyes wide with fury, chest heaving and hair falling into his eyes.

Porthos could see the fever in his skin, knew he would have little strength to continue for long, but probably needed to vent his anger.

"I'm stayin'" Porthos said firmly, walking over and picking up the broken chair. "You better get used to it."

Athos was across the room in three strides, grabbing the front of his shirt in his fists.

"This is madness!" he hissed, his voice already losing it's strength.

Porthos took hold of his hands and unfurled his fingers.

"Athos," he said quietly. "You're sick. And you're goin' to get worse. I'll not leave you alone and I know a bit about this."

They stared at each other, before Athos finally spoke;

"So do I," he replied swaying in front of him.

"What?" Porthos asked, taken by surprise at Athos' softly spoken words.

Athos pulled open the neck of his shirt, exposing the red rash that was now tracking across his shoulders.

"It ran through the next valley to Pinon. We escaped, but others did not."

"What 'appened?"

"The tenants all died. Their liege lord abandoned them. He set up road blocks to ensure they did not leave. We only found out after it was too late."

"He contained it," Porthos said.

"He condemned them," Athos replied, sharply, turning away.

"That's why you came quietly," Porthos ventured.

"You shouldn't be here," Athos groaned, leaning on the table, before a coughing fit overtook him.

"Seems to me," Porthos said, pushing him back toward the bed and sitting him down. "That you and me are both qualified to tackle this then."

Porthos poured some watered ale and passed it to Athos.

"You may have some resistance to this, Porthos," Athos said, his head in his hands. "But I have not."

Porthos reached out and put a hand on Athos's knee. He flinched, but looked up at him, accepting the offered ale.

"You're not goin' to die, Athos," Porthos said. "I won't let you."

"It is not me I am worried about, brother," Athos sighed.

oOo

There was an alcove in the far corner, covered by a thick curtain. Behind was a table on which stood a large bowl and jug for ablutions; beneath, a lidded pot for other needs.

A large diamond-shaped arrangement of air bricks sat at the top of the outer wall that let in little light but served to refresh stale air. There was no fireplace. Those in need of warmth resided in the other small room, which also had a window, or in the larger dormitory, which was the better equipped of all four rooms in the infirmary, surgeon's room included.

Porthos had chosen this room for its privacy. Athos always insisted on one of the two smaller rooms when he was in residency and as Musketeers, they had all grown accustomed to needing only the basic comforts.

The door to the room could open just enough for them to see into the room and have a conversation. Items could be passed through, but entry into the room was not possible, as the table did not permit it and Porthos was on guard.

Linen had been slipped through and later, fresh water and a pot of warm broth. Otherwise, the door was closed.

Dr Lemay had duly arrived and been subjected to the same rules as Aramis and d'Artagnan. He had finally acquiesced under Porthos's glare and agreed with their diagnosis. As such, he had given Aramis some suggestions as to soft food, herbs and tonics. He also suggested gargling with salted water and warm soup would help Athos's painful throat. Otherwise, there was nothing he could offer, apart from telling Porthos that the throat was the thing to watch, not the rash. And he urged rest, rest and more rest, which, they all felt, in view of who the patient was, was easier said than done.

After Lemay had gone, with the promise to return the following day, Aramis had slipped a cloth across the table and told Porthos to tie it around his mouth and nose. Porthos had picked it up and looked at it in disdain.

"Bugger that," he growled, as he pushed the cloth away.

"Porthos!" Aramis hissed from the other side of the threshold.

Porthos held up his hand;

"I know you want to get in here, Aramis," he said. "But I got this. Just trust me, yeah?"

Aramis had paced up and down, running his hands through his hair. This was unnatural. It should be him in there. But, from their enforced distance, watching Porthos move quietly around Athos, he settled. Turning to d'Artagnan, they nodded to each other.

"Alright," Aramis conceded, locking eyes with Porthos through the narrow opening of the door. "You will be the team in there and d'Artagnan and I will be the team out here."

Porthos nodded and turned back, to find Athos had sat back on the bed, legs outstretched. There was a sheen on his forehead now and Porthos poured him some watered ale. When Athos had swallowed some, with obvious difficulty, Porthos helped him off with his jacket and brought more pillows across to put behind him to ease his breathing, which was becoming laboured.

d'Artagnan had pushed a clean shirt across the table earlier, as Athos had refused to wear a nightshirt. As Athos pulled off his shirt, he stopped and looked up at Porthos.

The red rash now covered his torso.

"It begins," Athos said quietly.

oOo

Time passed.

Athos was able to read when his mind allowed it. Other times, he listened to Porthos's tall tales, smiling gently or falling asleep, depending on the quality of the tale. Other times, he watched as Porthos did press-ups and lunges, while quietly propped up on pillows, sipping herbal tea. Porthos particularly enjoyed sending his friend to sleep though, as Lemay had ordered lots of rest. d'Artagnan and Aramis would have aggravated him with their chatter, but wearing him down? Well, that was Porthos's forte.

At such times, it felt as if all would be well. He was just keeping Athos company. Until the time came when Athos couldn't breathe, or the pains in his stomach or head had him curling in on himself and then, Porthos was brought swiftly back to reality.

One morning, a melon appeared on the table. Porthos had thought Aramis was pulling his leg at first, until he explained it would not only be hydrating for both of them, but would soothe Athos's throat. He had urged caution though in not sharing utensils or cloths and such, but it had been a morning of smiles as they carefully devoured that melon. And it made a change from milk sops, broth and porridge for Athos.

When Athos was asleep, Porthos could talk in hushed tones to his two brothers through the door opening, and so kept abreast of the daily routine outside his small world. The Queen had sent her good wishes, along with a package of sweetmeats for Porthos, knowing that Athos was being well cared for but that it was he whose health may also suffer if he denied himself adequate sustenance. Another package contained quinces for both of them, which could be stewed. That brought a tear to Porthos's eye, which he hastily blinked back.

"Headache?" Porthos asked some time later, as Athos struggled to sleep.

"Hmm," Athos replied, his eyes closed.

Porthos soaked a cloth in cold water and brought it over, placing it on Athos's forehead. He also draped one around his throat, which was swollen. His tongue, too was swollen and red. The cough had come to nought though, but now he was beset by intermittent headaches.

Porthos worked diligently, passing information through the door to Aramis, who made suggestions, while d'Artagnan kept the supplies of food, water, ale, and linen coming.

A bowl of steaming water appeared several times a day that Porthos carefully placed in Athos's lap so that he could breathe a little more easily. Afterwards, ever practical, the water was used for washing.

Athos was fighting, but Porthos knew from Lemay that the situation could deteriorate at any time and that it was important to monitor his throat more than anything. The first time Athos acquiesced to Porthos's request to open his mouth, Porthos screwed up his face.

"Eugh!"

Athos had pulled his head away but turned to him a few moments later with a raised eyebrow.

"'Orrible," was all Porthos said, before making him gargle with heavily salted water, which brought its own exclamation of disgust from his disgruntled friend.

And so they all worked together, as Athos grew worse.

Day turned to night and then day again.

Porthos held Athos through his breathing difficulties and headache pain, dripping water and honey into his mouth to soothe his throat. Later, Athos meekly downed the pain draught that Aramis had passed through the door to ease his stomach pains.

Athos now lay in a heat-soaked tangle of sheets. He had stopped glaring and grumbling and was now accepting Porthos's help with a quietness that Porthos found worse, somehow. He had managed to get some warm soup into him, but otherwise he was existing on watered ale and thin oatmeal.

He changed the sheets by rolling him onto his side, pushing the sheet against him, then folding the new sheet on the bed and rolling him back onto it. The discarded sheet was then pulled from beneath him and pushed across the table to Aramis and d'Artagnan.

At one point during such an exchange, Aramis took hold of Porthos's wrist over the table and they both locked eyes. No words were said, but both took comfort from the touch.

A little later, Porthos woke from a snatched sleep, to find Athos sprawled back on the bed, his head turned away from him.

"Athos?" he whispered, his heart in his throat.

He crawled from his bed, aware his limbs would not obey him, pulling himself across from his own bed to the wooden post at the end of Athos's bed and hauling himself up. He reached out and put his hand on his friend's head, fingers curling in his long hair. There was no response and Porthos dropped to his knees.

"Athos!" he hissed, his hand running down Athos's damp face.

Suddenly, Athos opened his eyes and stared at him, unblinking.

Porthos sucked in a breath; looking down at his friend's chest, and seeing the shallow rise and fall that he had missed.

"You alright?" he said softly, his hand landing on the side of his neck.

Athos blinked slowly, as Porthos came into focus. Reading his expression, he reached up and placed his hand over Porthos's.

"Yes," he whispered, his forehead creasing with worry. "What is it?"

Porthos sniffed.

"Nothing," he said. "You just went a bit deep. I thought ..."

"I am sorry," Athos whispered, his hand slipping to Porthos's wrist.

"Me too," Porthos smiled.

The pillows were discarded as Porthos took their place, sitting on the bed with his back to the wall and legs stretched out. He held Athos in his arms, his back to Porthos's chest.

"Go back to sleep," he muttered, pulling the sheet up over him.

"This is a strange way to die," Athos murmured as they lay quietly.

Porthos pulled him tighter against his chest.

"No-one's dyin'" he growled.

"If you say so," Athos said.

"I do," Porthos said, his voice a low rumble against Athos's back.

"Who was it?" Athos asked after a moment of heavy silence.

"Who was what?" Porthos asked, shifting his weight, as he straightened Athos up.

"Who was the person you could not save," Athos said quietly.

Porthos went very still.

Athos rolled his head back and squinted up at Porthos. His eyes were glassy and slightly unfocussed but he took a ragged breath and spoke again.

" _Porthos."_

"My mother," Porthos murmured.

Athos felt Porthos's arms tense, but he continued.

"I don't understand. You were a child when she died," he said.

Porthos reached over and picked up the cup of ale from the floor beside him, holding it in front of Athos, who took a sip.

"Sometimes," Porthos said, "I think ... I was four. If she hadn't have had me to look after, maybe she could have got out."

"So, it should have been you who died?" Athos said, carefully.

"Maybe," Porthos replied, holding the cup to Athos's lips again.

"Your logic is flawed," Athos sighed. "A mother should not have to bury her child."

"A mother shouldn't have to die like that," Porthos said, pulling Athos tighter.

"What did she die of?" Athos suddenly asked. Sick as he was, he was following Porthos's line of thought.

When he felt Porthos draw in a breath, he groaned, as realisation came from his silence.

"A man shouldn't 'ave to bury his brother," Porthos finally grunted.

"I promise you,"Athos whispered. "I will do all I can not to die."

"That's all I ask," Porthos said, resting his chin on Athos's head.

oOo

Everyone respected Porthos's wishes. This disease had swept through Europe several times. If it got out now, the consequences would be dire. The King had been kept informed and was ready to mount a guard around the Garrison, should the disease not be contained within the infirmary.

The clock was ticking.

Porthos and Aramis spent the night shouting through the door. Athos slept fitfully, breathing harshly, caught between fever and chills. Aramis was pushing concoctions through the door, relaying what Lemay has said on his latest visit. d'Artagnan, hollow-eyed, continued to play his part and spoke quietly to Treville each time he made one of his visits from his office for an update.

Changing the sheets once more, Porthos grimaced and a moan escaped him.

Waking, Athos reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"S'alright. Just a headache," Porthos whispered, patting his hand.

" _Porthos,"_ Athos said quietly, searching his face.

"S'alright," Porthos repeated. "Just need to rest."

Porthos lit a candle and he laid on the spare bed, turning so he could see Athos. He had moved the bed so that it was next to the table and had managed to sleep during the last few days. Either d'Artagnan or Aramis could wake him by slipping a hand through the door and giving his shoulder a shake. Despite Porthos being a notoriously heavy sleeper, since he had been in this room, he had always woken instantly when they roused him.

Seeing that Athos was asleep once more, Porthos closed his eyes.

He did not know how long he had slept, but he woke to the noise of the table beside him being pushed aside.

"We've been calling you!" d'Artagnan said.

All had gone quiet in the small room and finally, he and Aramis had taken the decision to enter, come what may.

Porthos sat up instantly, eyes wide with fear.

"Athos?" he said, staring up into Aramis's eyes.

Aramis flicked his head, and Porthos followed his gaze.

Athos was laying on his side, propped up on his elbow, watching him.

He was smiling.

"Good morning," he managed.

His voice was still hoarse, but he looked different. His fever had broken during the night and it seemed that they had both slept heavily. For once, Porthos could not be roused.

Finally, fearing the worst, the others could not keep out and they had pushed open the door, shoving the table aside to join Porthos.

Aramis smiled, as he pulled Porthos from his bed. "It's alright," he said, as Porthos blanched. "It's over," he added. "All for one, my friend."

"And one for all," Treville echoed as he stepped into the room. The term had added meaning as he surveyed his Inseparables with his a steel-grey gaze. "You were right, Porthos." he added, turning to the big man, who was standing confused in the middle of the room. "You did have some resistance."

"Your actions kept us all safe, Porthos," Aramis agreed, crossing the room to sit on the bed next to Athos.

"He was very determined," Athos said, softly, looking fondly at Porthos, as d'Artagnan sat on the bed that Porthos had vacated with obvious relief.

"Don't ask me to do that again though, Gentlemen," Treville said, the shadows beneath his eyes evidence of how he had passed the last few days.

"No more searchin' sewers," Porthos grunted, looking pointedly at Athos.

"Indeed," Treville scowled at Athos, before reaching out and taking his hand. "The body has washed up, Athos. We can put this all behind us."

"Gladly," Athos sighed, falling back on his pillows.

"Everyone out!" Aramis said firmly, standing up and shooing everyone from the room. "Our brother needs to rest."

"Didn't take him long to take charge again," d'Artagnan whispered to Porthos when they were outside.

"He's welcome to it," Porthos said, throwing his arm around his young friend.

A week later, Athos's rash had faded away. He had remained confined for a further week, but had moved himself to the other room, which had a window. Seeing the sky once more helped enormously. A lingering reminder of his illness was the skin on his fingers and toes, which had begun to peel and to which Aramis applied a daily salve.

Porthos had a lingering headache, but no other symptoms apart from exhaustion, through lack of sleep and worry.

He had been right in his assumption that he had a resistance to scarlatina. He would never admit to anyone but himself that it was a faint hope he had held, not a strong conviction. The fight he had put up was due to desperation. As a small boy, he had not been able to save his mother, but as a man, he had stood his ground and helped to save his brother.

Athos would say that he helped to save _all_ his brothers and in doing so, had kept the good citizens of Paris safe.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

 **A/N: Scarlatina (Scarlet Fever):**

There are some descriptions of scarlet fever which date back almost 2,500 years to Hippocrates. The first paper identifying scarlet fever as distinct from other rashes (e.g. smallpox) appeared in 1553, when it was described as _rossalia_. British physician Thomas Sydenham used the term "febris scarlatina" in a 1676 publication. During his life (1624-1689) and for more than a century afterwards, it was considered to be a relatively mild childhood disease. However, several European countries, including France, experienced fatal epidemics. They were often short-lived and it does not appear they were wide spread.

The develop of antibiotics has led to the decline in incidence of scarlet fever, although China experienced an epidemic in 2011. It still remains a threat today, particularly in developing countries, but nowhere today is it as severe as it was during the middle ages to the mid nineteenth century.

When I was seven years old, a "friend" removed the manhole cover of a neighbourhood drain and dared me to put my head down it. I refused but she did it, and subsequently was ill with scarlet fever for several weeks. Wasn't I a sensible seven year old?!


	69. Love, Above All Else

Thanks to **U** **i** **a,** **Guest** and **Doubtful Guest** for your previous reviews as I can't thank you personally and to all others, as always.

This is for **Hsg,** on the happy occasion of her birthday!

oOo

 **69\. LOVE, ABOVE ALL ELSE**

 **Athos and Sylvie:**

She slowly opened her eyes to the strange room and listened to the sound of boots pacing on the flagstones, just out of sight.

"Athos?"

The pacing stopped, followed by a rush of feet. She turned onto her back as he dropped to her side.

"Where are we?" she asked, frowning.

"The Infirmary," he replied. "Battered, but serviceable. It survived the worst of it."

He stared at her, afraid to touch; his eyes telling their own story.

"You fainted," he said gently; incredulously.

She huffed;

"I never faint," she replied, as he knew she would.

He ran his hand tenderly over her beautiful, thick black hair. His fingers drifted down one wayward spiral, which he tucked, with infinite care behind her ear. His eyes were awash as he swallowed once, twice.

"You will need to redefine that statement," he murmured.

She watched him and saw his fear. Saw how his eyes took in her face, assessing her. She felt her cheeks flush under his intense gaze.

"Pregnant women faint, Athos," she replied, softly. "You may have to get used to it."

He sat back on his haunches.

"As long as I am always there to catch you," he whispered.

The sight of her gracefully slipping to the ground just out of his reach played out in his mind once more. It had continued to do so from the moment she had fainted until she opened her eyes and he had her back with him. No doubt, it would do so again as he grew accustomed to this terrifying new world he now found himself in.

"Rest," he said, asserting himself now.

"I'm not ill, Athos. Merely with child," she replied softly, having none of it.

There was a look of quiet amusement on her face and he marvelled once more at how calmly she was negotiating this new territory.

"There is no "merely" about it," he growled, and she frowned.

"We're still going?" she suddenly asked.

She was looking at him fearfully, remembering how he had waivered so during those early days of their attraction. She reached out her hand, watching the myriad of emotions flit across his face. She was learning to read them and yet, he was unpredictable.

In answer, he took her hand and looked at it with great interest, before lifting it and kissing each knuckle. His lips then ghosted over each fingertip. His green eyes flicked up to meet hers as he turned her hand and kissed her palm deeply. It did something to her stomach that she could not describe. She wanted to tell him. Instead, she smiled and offered him her other hand.

"Yes," he breathed. "We are still going."

She sighed as he worked his way slowly up her arm, before reaching her shoulder and moving to her throat. She dropped her head back to give him access. His long hair tickled her skin and it was her turn now to hook the long, gently curling strand behind his ear.

"We are still going," he repeated, softly. "After all," he smiled, "I have bought d'Artagnan a hat."

She had grown to like the small smiles that he was beginning to allow himself.

"It's settled then," she laughed. "What would we do with it otherwise?"

"Quite," he murmured, as he helped her from the cot.

Sliding his arm around her waist, they walked out of the infirmary and into the sunshine.

She may be the one to tell them later that Athos would be taking a leave of absence when they all met up in the courtyard, amid the ruin of the Garrison; but looking at him now, she knew he would be at her side.

 _I love this man. Above all else._

The thought warmed her heart.

They had never told each other out loud, though she knew that they would, one day.

Perhaps in Rouen, or Lille. Perhaps, not even in France itself.

Perhaps not until they became three.

But they would tell each other.

Just as daylight always follows the dark.

They had all the time in the world.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

"Their Tales To Tell" will be up soon.


	70. Their Tales to Tell

I attach a **warning** to this chapter:

This chapter is a discussion about scars. In the show, our boys all have emotional scars but there are physical ones too, all of which tell a story. Life in the seventeenth century was hard. Medical knowledge was sparse, the scientific revolution years ahead. People had to find their own way to manage the trials and tribulations of life. This Talk is another lesson for d'Artagnan but if it is not for you, please skip it.

oOo

 **70\. THEIR TALES TO TELL**

 **Athos, d'Artagnan, Porthos, Aramis and Treville:**

"All done," Aramis said, sitting back and rolling down his sleeves.

"Fine enough for the ..."

" _Queen's chemise_!"Porthos and Athos said together, as Athos poured a cup of wine and brought it over, pressing it into d'Artagnan's hands.

d'Artagnan gratefully accepted it and downed it in one, his eyes still stinging from the needle; however gentle Aramis had been.

He had received a slice along his jaw during a practise bout in the yard. It had bled copiously and d'Artagnan had clutched his hand to it as blood seeped through his fingers. Athos had pressed a cloth over it and grabbing d'Artagnan's hand, had held it firmly over the wound while Aramis went ahead to the infirmary to prepare his needles and thread. Porthos trailed along behind after having consoled the unfortunate cadet who had delivered the cut.

Now, as the day drew to a close, they had decided to stay put and eat in the infirmary room, before retiring to The Wren. Serge was preparing their food before leaving for the night. Three bottles of wine had appeared, seemingly from thin air, and they all made themselves comfortable while Aramis handed d'Artagnan a small pot of salve with instructions to apply it before he retired.

d'Artagnan asked for a mirror, which Aramis passed to him. He then spent a few long moments examining the long line of stitches along his jaw, criss-crossed with black stitches over red angry-looking flesh.

"Will it scar?" he suddenly asked, as he prodded it, before Aramis took his hand and pulled it away with a tut.

"If it does," Aramis said with a knowing smirk, "I find the ladies find them an interesting topic when basking in the afterglow."

d'Artagnan looked doubtful. He had never "basked." There had been no leisurely afterglow for him. Just a frantic scramble for clothes before a father or brother found him in their barn or outhouse with a daughter or a sister.

Looking at Aramis's self satisfied smile, he found he quite liked the idea.

He looked across at Athos, who merely rolled his eyes and reached for a bottle of wine and pulled the cork unceremoniously with his teeth, before tucking his scarf carefully over the scar he bore on his neck from previous ambush.* He had no wish to enter the conversation.

Aramis though, was in his element and warming to his subject.

He stood and pulled his shirt out from his breeches and pointed at a dull red line on his ribs and began to explain its origin. That particular one was from an irate husband, who snagged him on the way out of the window, he said, a smile of triumph on his face.

That was how their Captain, Treville, found him when he suddenly appeared in the doorway. Aramis had his head down, lost in his tale. At Treville's cough, he whirled around and dropped his shirt hem.

"Captain!" he cried. "We were just ..."

"Dissuading d'Artagnan from the notion that scars are something to be boasted about in taverns and ladies chambers," Athos growled, pinning Aramis with a glare worthy of Medusa.

Porthos laughed behind him, as Treville's steel blue gaze raked over them all, before landing on d'Artagnan who had his feet stretched out in front of him on the cot, wad of linen now pressed over his newly-sewn wound.

Treville sighed and dropped into a nearby chair. He was aware of his marksman's proclivities with the fairer sex but also, looking at the dour expression on Athos's face, the need to separate fact from fantasy.

" _Battle scars_ are all very noble," he finally said, reaching for the wine, "But how better to serve France than by bearing scars from the King himself?"

Athos groaned as he side-glanced Porthos.

d'Artagnan's eyes widened.

"The King gave you a scar?" the young man said, suddenly very interested in his Captain.

"And his father," Treville added nonchalantly, helping himself to a cup of wine and crossing one leg over the other.

"Henry?" d'Artagnan gaped.

Aramis sat back, realising he would have to up his game.

He looked at Athos, who rolled his eyes once more and Porthos, who grinned at his Lothario-brother's chagrin.

"Show me?" d'Artagnan asked and Aramis deflated further, although his own interest was piqued as he began to catalogue the origin of his own scars in his mind in order to consider whether he had a worthy challenge to his Captain.

Treville rolled up his sleeve and held up his forearm. A long, thin silver line trailed down from the crook of his arm half way to his wrist.

d'Artagnan nodded and looked at his Captain with a wordless lift of his eyebrows.

"Louis, aged ten," Treville responded. "He learned his lesson well that day," he sighed.

The boy had been Monarch for a year, following the assassination of Henry IV, his father. Treville had begun to tutor him in the art of self defence at the request of the council, who feared an attempt on Henry's successor. Louis was a quick learner, but there was an anger in the boy at the lot that life had dealt him. He still keenly felt the loss of his father and could lose his temper quickly. Treville had taken the brunt _that_ particular morning, but the boy had fought well, though erratically, and had taken some consoling when he had cut Treville. Later, of course, he would become bored with the sword, believing he had learned all there was to learn.

Porthos gave a low whistle. Athos did not react. Aramis tried to read Treville's face, but it was as inscrutable as ever. He would not put it past Treville to put himself under Louis's blade to teach the particular lesson he believed Louis had learned that day. Certainly, the boy had been distressed.

Treville rolled down his sleeve.

"And King Henry?" d'Artagnan asked.

Treville stood and walked across, pulling the neck of his shirt across and revealing a short, red line under his collarbone. At first, d'Artagnan winced before realising it was, of course, an old scar. The old King had been dead for over two decades, after all.

"How?" he asked, now thoroughly distracted from his own hurt.

"First blood," Treville grunted, pulling the shirt back over his shoulder and returning to his chair at the table.

"You duelled the King?" Porthos now asked, incredulous at the disclosure.

"By Royal Command," Treville replied, before his eyes flicked to Athos, who was sitting hunched over, looking at the floor.

"Very much like your encounter with the Duke of Savoy, Athos," Treville said, tightly; though Athos did not raise his head, nor acknowledge him.

Finally, Athos turned his head.

"So you did not embarrass him," he said quietly.

It was not a question, but a statement. Treville's fury at Athos's determination to draw the Duke's blood still rankled with him. As did the apology he had forced him to make.

"I did not," Treville replied, bluntly.

"But you _could_ have bested him?" d'Artagnan interjected.

"There was a moment, yes," Treville replied modestly. They all knew there would have been several such opportunities. They had all seen his skill with a sword. He had been a formidable warrior in his time.

"But I think," Treville continued, "you will all agree, for the sake of France, it is wise to choose your enemies carefully. Or at least, not let them see your intentions. Or, in my case, my abilities."

Athos could be quick to anger if he perceived an injustice. Savoy had been more than that. Unlike the old King, who was merely enjoying a duel, the Duke was unpredictable and dangerous and needed to be handled carefully, especially in view of the treaty that Richelieu was keen for him to sign. What had turned Treville's initial pride that morning into anger was the danger Athos risked in besting him. To see Athos pay the price on that polished floor, knowing he could not have saved him, had seen him lose his own composure and demand that Athos personally apologise to the Duke for embarrassing him. God knows, he would have liked to have run the man through himself but there had been more at stake that day. Treville had never seen Athos act with such recklessness. He did not want to see it again, and a dint to his pride may ensure he did not repeat his rare heart over head moment. As it turned out, the Duke acted honourably.

All this went unsaid, of course, but as Aramis busied himself tidying up his medical equipment, Athos finally raised his head and locked eyes with his Captain. A slight tilt of his head served to put the matter between them to rest.

The light began to fade, and Porthos lit candles as they continued to make headway with the wine.

The mood lightened as the wine was drunk. Even Athos smiled as Porthos rolled up the leg of his pants and ran his fingers over a puckered scar on his shin.

"Before your time," he grunted at Aramis as the medic sucked in a breath.

"Every time I lay eyes on that I wonder where the man who sewed it got his training," he hissed.

Of course he had seen that scar many times, and each time he wished he had been there to do a better job.

"Who said it was a man?" Porthos replied, shoving his pants leg down. "And who said she was sober?" he added, barking out a laugh. "I certainly wasn't!" he finished.

"Porthos, you should be careful who you allow to lay hands on you," Aramis tutted.

"I do, now. Didn't know any better, did I?" Porthos growled.

Just then, the door opened and Serge limped in, carrying a tray laden with food. Porthos jumped up and retrieved it, setting it on the table.

"What are you boys up to?" the old man growled as he looked around, before his eyes alighted on d'Artagnan, still looking pale, sitting cross-legged on the bed with the cloth pressed to his jaw.

Serge peered at him.

"You been in the wars, lad?" he grunted.

d'Artagnan removed the cloth and dropped it on the bed, turning his head so that Serge could inspect the line of stitches.

He nodded and hummed, before looking at Aramis.

"Good job," he grunted. "We should 'ave 'ad someone like you as our campaign medic. Doctoring was a lot different in my day. 'opefully, you can grow a beard over that," he chuckled. He turned to leave, but a question from d'Artagnan had him stopping and turning.

"Have you got any scars Serge?"

"That I have," Serge said. "But I ain't gonna show you."

Aramis stifled a laugh.

Treville exchanged a knowing look with Serge and the old man shuffled to the door.

"I'll leave you to your tales," he said. "Leave the tray if you're in for the night. I'll send the lad for it in the mornin'"

"He must have some tales to tell," d'Artagnan said, disappointed that the old soldier had chosen not to share any.

"Perhaps it wasn't the right moment," Athos replied. "They are our own tales to tell."

Athos, Porthos and Aramis all had scars on their faces. Scars that each conjured emotions best left unsaid. Perhaps those scars defined who they were, or how they saw the world. People saw their scars and perhaps thought them soldiers bearing their endeavours of duty and combat.

No-one knew how Athos had obtained his scar.

Only he knew that it had been stitched and re-stitched three times as a very young boy, by one of the best physicians his father could afford, sent from Sweden. Not, for Athos's future peace of mind, he was sure later when he had occasion to think on it. More to assuage the elder Comte's sense of perfection in his first born, as befitted the one who would eventually take his place. The agony he had endured evidently finally produced a result that satisfied his parent, though nothing was said. No comfort was offered. It was as if it was Olivier's fault that it had happened, which it was not.

Now, in the glow of the candles and the drunken musings of his friends, there was a barrier erected toward the question of its origin.

It was the same with Porthos.

He had not enlightened them as to his own facial scar. He too, had had to endure a painful repair, but the saving of his eye had helped him to come to terms with the long scar that remained.

Deep emotions ran between the two of them and they silently made eye contact for a brief second; both uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation.

Aramis saved them by picking up the thread of a previous tale; pushing his hair aside to reveal the long scar hidden in his hairline.

"I don't know how I procured this beauty," he mused.

" _Madame C_ _harbonneau's_ _roof tiles_ ,"* Athos and Porthos both spoke at once, before clicking their cups together and downing their wine and then slamming the empty cups on the table in perfect timing.

"No," Aramis argued, reaching to the back of his head. "That was this one," he muttered, feeling the ridge along his scalp. He glared at Athos as he remembered the prank he had played that day, telling him his beautiful hair would need to be shaved in order to sew the cut.

"You are incredibly gullible sometimes, old friend," Athos murmured, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Oh," Aramis said, "You are not beyond that yourself, mon ami," he cried, jumping to his feet to reach for Athos's ear, hidden in his unruly hair.

Athos batted him off but not before Aramis had started his tale, only for Athos to interrupt and take over;

"He told me I'd lost the top of my ear," he growled, glaring at the marksman.

"Tell us?" d'Artagnan said, getting himself comfortable.

"You did not seem too bothered at the time," Aramis said, ignoring d'Artagnan's request for the moment as the memory stirred.

"It did not seem of consequence, all things considered," Athos replied laconically. "And it was not as if I could check, as you had bandaged my hands heavily."

"Well, they were burnt, my friend. As was your hair."

Athos did not reply, his hand reaching up unconsciously to rub the rough skin on the side of his head, completely covered now by his hair.

"It was to teach you a lesson," Aramis said.

"Well learned," Athos replied. "If a little excessive."

d'Artagnan and Treville were looking a little perplexed. Porthos knew the tale, but it was before d'Artagnan's time and they had not kept the Captain fully up to speed as it would not have come out in Athos's favour, in view of their Commanding Officer's views on taking unnecessary risks.

Treville crossed his arms and waited.

Athos sighed.

"Our friend here," Aramis began, "decided to enter a burning building to save a man who had fallen asleep in its attic."

"He was drunk," Porthos interjected. "The man, not Athos," he corrected with a chuckle. "A dead weight, though, as it turned out."

"Not only that," Aramis continued, "but he entered the building before we arrived, on his own, with no back up."

"Time was of the essence," Athos sniffed, haughtily. He had no patience with this tale, but knew he would have to endure it, if the look on d'Artagnan's face was anything to go by. And on that of his Captains.

"Athos was in the process of carrying said drunk out when we arrived," Porthos added, moving the story along.

"And then, his hair caught fire," Aramis finished, quietly.

Treville leaned forward. d'Artagnan's mouth dropped open.

"He had gone in there three times, before he found 'im," Porthos said, proudly.

" _Porthos ..._ " Athos groaned, not comfortable once more.

"He found 'im on the second run, apparently, but went back in," Porthos continued, ignoring Athos's glare.

"What for?" d'Artagnan asked, confused.

"Yes, what for?" Treville growled.

Athos sighed.

"He had a dog," Athos said quietly, taking an sudden interest in the moon, now shining through the window.

"Not worth your life," Porthos said, tightly.

"Worth the man's, it seemed," Athos replied, meeting his fierce gaze.

"What do you mean?" Aramis asked him. This was news to him.

"He wanted to go back in. I refused. He begged me," Athos said, running his fingers over the table top. "The dog was his sole companion, apparently."

"So," d'Artagnan said, wanting to say something to break the atmosphere. "You didn't know you _hadn't_ lost the top of your ear?"

Athos shrugged.

"Not when half my head had been on fire," he said, flatly. "Or, at least, felt like it."

He looked at Aramis;

"You should not object to me saving a man's life," he said, tersely.

"I don't object to you saving that man," Aramis replied, suddenly very serious. "Nor his dog, when it comes down to it. I objected to your lack of self preservation."

"It was my duty," Athos replied, simply. "I could hear the animal screaming in fear. It was a sound I did not want in my head for the rest of my life. Nor the man's subsequent grief."

He looked at them all, "I have no obvious scarring to show for it. Sorry," he said with a small quirk of his lips.

"Well, that's something to celebrate," Treville said, downing his wine.

"That man's sober now," Porthos piped up, genially. "I see 'im in the market. He's got a stall, selling baskets. Still got the dog," he laughed. "Nice little thing."

Porthos raised his glass in salute and Athos tilted his head in acknowledgement.

"Our scars merely tell the story of our lives but they are a constant reminder of things we may not wish to remember, no matter who may be impressed by them," Athos said. He shot a glance at Aramis, who held his gaze for a moment before looking away.

"We learn to live with them as we live with other consequences of being a soldier to the Crown.

"Injuries and the resultant scars are inevitable in our lives as Musketeers," Athos added, wondering why they had not had this discussion with their young friend before.

"You will learn to live with them, as we have done," he finished, looking around at his friends and his Captain. "They may define some men, who seek to justify them when asked, or refuse to discuss them in order to keep their secrets and deep emotions to themselves. If we can tell you anything, it is that they will be signposts in your life.

"They are a map, in this case, a teaching tool. They are many things. Do not wish them on your skin. They are easy to obtain, often hard to heal, and sometimes impossible to forget. They are their owner's business, unless he chooses to explain," he raised his cup to Aramis then, realising that although Aramis responded to his lover's curiosity, he never mentioned the scar he bore from Savoy.

d'Artagnan had chosen a life as a soldier and one day, he may bear his own distinct mark upon his face for the world to see and judge him. Today was not that day. d'Artagnan's beard would eventually cover today's mishap, when it finally grew in. By then the reason for the scar may be long forgotten.

Hopefully, he now understood that scars brought by sword and musket were not to be coveted as a sign of bravery. In their world, they were simply signs of torn flesh and moments of madness.

For as many scars that they bore, they had equally delivered to those who would fight them. Those men, in turn, would have their own tales to tell. Whether they chose to embellish or take pride in them was up to them.

Looking around now at his drunken brothers and his Captain, now ribbing Aramis for the finery of his new shirt, d'Artagnan knew he would look at this first mark of his as it faded into a thin, silvery line, hopefully beneath his beard, and he would remember this day for the rest of his life.

Their talk of scars drifted into tales of skirmishes, many of which were inevitably embellished; each fight growing into grand battles. At some point, they had all finished the wine, and the additional bottles that Treville had produced and had fallen asleep, d'Artagnan first, exhausted by the day's events and the emotional evening they had shared.

Hours later, a gentle shake awoke him and he looked up at the hand now in front of him. Accepting the proffered cup of wine, he tapped it to the one Athos held in his other hand.

"Good health, d'Artagnan," Athos said softly.

"Good health, Athos," d'Artagnan responded, looking at the window in surprise.

The moon had made way for the rising sun. They had talked all night. The Wren would have to wait for another time.

d'Artagnan stretched.

"Time to get up and face the new day," Athos said, reaching out to pull him to his feet.

Yes, it certainly was.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.

 ***** An Unlikely Brotherhood, published 23.04.2017

 ****** Madame's Roof Tiles; Chapter 5, Infirmary Talks


	71. The Naked Truth

**71\. THE NAKED TRUTH**

 _He was naked._

 _He remembered being carried into the small space, fighting; dumped on a thin, damp mattress._

 _At some point, he was left and he rolled off onto the floor._

 _He had ropes hanging from each wrist._

 _His head hurt._

 _The door swung open and he launches himself at them._

 _His tormentor shouts but Athos does not understand the words._

 _Another voice growls. A voice of authority; frustrated by his soldier's ineptitude, he orders them to stand back. They comply and face each other, warily, before one of them comes too close._

 _Instinct kicks in, but he is slow. His muscles burn. He is hot. His legs shake. His skin is slick with sweat. There are bruises on his flank from their earlier altercation. He is weak from hunger. He backs away but they keep coming. The floor is rough under his bare feet._

 _He has a weapon now; seized from his weapon belt, cast carelessly aside on the floor. He fights off those who would come close._

 _His swings are wild; the blade hits the wall and reverberates up his arm and he almost drops it. He has hit the candle though, and plunged them into darkness. His throat is raw but he yells and urges them on. His back hits the wall._

 _His punch is wide and he misses. His energy is gone._

 _The one in authority approaches. He raises his sword to this man's throat but something in the defiant glare forestalls him. Just enough for the man to knock the sword from his heavy arm._

 _Someone else comes now. One of the ropes is caught up and he is twisted and held in an armlock where his air is almost cut off. He struggles to breathe until his vision blurs and the fight leaves him and he is forcibly carried back to the bed. The mattress in gone now, lying in a damp heap on the floor. He is pushed down onto bare wooden slats._

 _The ropes are tied to the bed once more and darkness comes quickly._

 _They stand over him, out of breath and frustrated._

" _Who's idea was it to untie 'im?"_

" _I thought he had settled."_

" _Next time, take his weapon belt away. And get a clean mattress! He can't lie on bare wooden slats."_

" _Yes, sir."_

" _He was a sight to see though, wasn't he?! Out of his 'ead and still swingin'"_

" _He was magnificent."_

" _Didn't 'ave a clue we were here."_

" _I hope not."_

 _Two days later, when he wakes in a clean linen shirt and on fresh white sheets, he remembers nothing._

oOo

 **PRESENT:**

It is a fact that Athos drinks.

Not all the time. He is not dependant upon it. He is just not equipped to deal with what has happened to him. Occasionally, it is all too much. At such times, he takes himself off to sit in shadows.

Before Treville, he may have ended up in the morgue.

He had been a challenge.

oOo

 _Porthos watched from across the room. Athos lay loosely bound to the cot. He had passed from a manic fighting dervish into almost-peaceful sleep. It had been quite a night; one that Porthos did not want to see a repeat of soon._

 _One bound hand lay loosely on his chest, the other by his side. Porthos had stuffed rags between the ropes and the skin of his wrists. He had fought them as they returned him to the bed but had succumbed when Aramis placed a cold damp cloth on his head, holding it there until he subsided._

 _Then, the watch to ensure he continued to safely breathe._

 _Some time after noon, Athos groaned and cracked open an eye._

" _Do you remember anything?" Aramis asked, wearily._

" _No," he grunted. "Am I in trouble?"_

" _Depends if he sees the funny side."_

 _Athos weighed up the words. He had not been at the Garrison long, but he had a developed a respect for the Captain of the Musketeers, as a figure of authority and as a time-served soldier._

" _Was there a funny side?" he asked._

 _Porthos thought of Athos, naked as the day he was born and as deadly as the devil himself._

" _No," Porthos replied. "Not at the time."_

 _Then, Porthos started to laugh, to which Athos raised an enquiring eyebrow._

" _Didn't know you 'ad a birthmark there."_

 _Athos's eyes widened and he groaned again._

" _Don't worry, mon ami," Aramis laughed. "I think our dear Captain may have seen your potential."_

 _That only made Porthos laugh harder._

 _His laugh was cut off by the arrival of the man himself. Treville threw the door open, and then he threw Porthos and Aramis out._

oOo

Porthos kept watch in the taverns now, not just in wait to take Athos home but to ensure he never drank enough to poison himself like that again. It could only have been that, to Porthos's mind, for to think otherwise – that a man could be driven to do that, to go that far to keep the darkness out, would break his own heart.

They were now a little further down the line. Things _had_ changed. _He_ had changed. He had returned their trust.

Nothing since compared to that night.

oOo

"What's wrong with _him_?" d'Artagnan asked when he had first sat in the tavern with them.

Athos sat across the room, on his own. Understandable, after the day they had had, barely saving him from execution in the yard of the Chatelet.

"There was a woman," Aramis said quietly, by way of explanation. "That's all he ever said."

"Why does Porthos stay?" d'Artagnan asked as he and Aramis left the tavern a few nights later, leaving Porthos and Athos behind once more.

"Because Paris is not safe at night," Aramis replied, waving his arm around theatrically, before growing serious. "Because, once, he nearly killed himself. And us."

"How?"

Aramis lowered his voice, despite there being not a soul nearby and leaned in toward their new young friend.

"He was a fighting drunk then," he said, quietly. "Now, he's a melancholic one.

"Not so often now, though," Aramis continued, pulling the brim of his hat down. "He has mellowed, somewhat."

"What happened?"

Aramis slung his arm casually around the young man's shoulders as they continued to walk back to the Garrison.

"He has a purpose. Back then, he didn't."

"But you don't know why?"

"As I said, there was a woman. That's all he said."

"Good or bad, she must have been _something,"_ d'Artagnan muttered. "To affect him so?"

"Well, I don't suppose we will ever meet her, my friend," Aramis laughed.

"Would you want to?"

Aramis remembered the deadly struggle they had had with him that night. Athos, out of his mind, wielding his sword …

"Probably not," he replied, softly.

oOo

" _Explain it to me." Treville said to the man slowly getting dressed in the infirmary._

 _Treville had waited. Now he wanted an explanation._

" _I wasn't on duty."_

" _You are not on duty now. You're off rosta for a week."_

" _The week?" Athos had replied, his head shooting up, which made him sway rather dramatically, before he caught himself._

" _It will give you time to think," Treville shot back. "It will give Aramis and Porthos pause. Or do you think they are not affected?"_

" _What is it to them? I am not one of you."_

 _Treville sighed. Where to start?_

 _He dragged a chair over and sat, heavily._

" _What do you remember?"_

 _Athos's head throbbed._

" _Waking up," he grunted, pulling his belt tight and adjusting his weaponry._

" _What else?"_

 _Athos did not respond and again, Treville sighed._

" _Then let me enlighten you."_

" _I really don't think ..."_

" _SIT DOWN! By all that is holy, you will hear this."_

 _Treville waited until his man had taken a seat._

" _You were beyond drunk. You were delusional. This cannot continue," Treville growled, barely holding onto his temper. "You are a danger to yourself and to us."_

" _Am I allowed out?" Athos said, his voice dripping with indifference._

" _You are not a prisoner, Athos. Only to yourself."_

 _Athos stilled._

 _The words hung between them. Only to yourself._

oOo

"You should know. He doesn't live to drink," Porthos explained to d'Artagnan, as they mucked out the stables together some days later. Aramis had told Porthos that their new friend was curious about the man he had helped to save and was asking questions.

"But sometimes, he drinks to live. 'Cos, the way he's thinkin' when he gets like that, it's drink that keeps him anchored. Stops him drownin' in his own thoughts.

"We've learned from experience," he added, before stopping and leaning on his brush.

"He's gotten' better," he finished, propping the brush against a nearby beam and rolling down his sleeves.

"Just, don't try and coax him. He's still one hell of a stubborn bugger."

oOo

" _Let me paint you a picture," Treville said, gruffly._

" _You took three of us on in your delusional state and kept us at bay. It is my opinion you could have done that just as well sober."_

 _Athos looked at him._

" _And, you did it in a state of undress," Treville added._

 _Athos huffed._

" _Well, that rather defeats your argument," he replied. "That would have tempered your response, somewhat."_

 _He did not look contrite in the slightest._

 _Treville suppressed a smile at his self deprecation, despite the seriousness of the matter._

" _Well," Treville countered, "I didn't want to injure what could be my best hope of a champion swordsman."_

 _Athos looked up, his brow creased._

" _You still want me?"_

 _He was so used to failing. So used to berating himself. So tired of it all._

 _Treville stood and looked down at him. Athos was staring at the floor._

" _More so," he said, firmly, taking in the closed-off man before him. "The point is, Athos, do you want us?_

 _No answer came._

" _Take the week," Treville said. "If you walk back through that archway in seven days, it will be on my terms. On the regiment's terms. We will discuss them thoroughly. Full compliance is a pre-requisite of your commission. Do I make myself clear?"_

" _You do," Athos conceded, under his glare, though still he did not raise his head._

" _I know you were brought up with fine wines, Athos, but that stuff you drink in the taverns will do for that brain of yours. That would be a waste."_

 _It was the first time that Treville had eluded to Athos's suspected birthright._

" _What's behind this, son?" Treville asked carefully, his voice softer now._

 _It took a long time, but finally, Athos spoke._

" _A woman," he said._

" _A woman?" Treville repeated. Of all the things he had thought that may drive this broken man, he had not expected that._

" _She slept a summer by my side," Athos said, the words fell heavily from him as if dragged from his very soul. "By the following summer, she was gone. She took everything I held dear with her."_

 _Athos looked up then and Treville nearly took a step back at the raw emotion on his face._

" _Everything," Athos whispered._

" _Where did she go?" Treville asked. Despite himself, he was intrigued._

 _But Athos did not answer._

 _Treville, ever a patient man, waited._

" _Somewhere I could not follow," Athos eventually said. "My life is … different now."_

" _You have no purpose," Treville stated._

 _Athos almost laughed._

" _None whatsoever," he said, almost inaudibly._

" _I can give you purpose," Treville replied, to which Athos uttered five words;_

" _Why would you do that?"_

oOo

"We should respect his wishes," Aramis said, airily, as he eyed Athos, sitting alone at his usual table of choice in the far corner of the tavern; defences raised once more.

"Yeah, well, one day, _your_ dalliances may come back to bite you," Porthos grunted, watching Athos raise the glass to his lips once more. He doubted he even tasted it when he was in this frame of mind.

"Not me, my friend," Aramis beamed. "Love them and leave them. Happy, I might add."

"Some things are harder to forget for us mere mortals, Aramis," Porthos replied.

Aramis frowned and leaned in.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

Porthos hesitated, before looking up at him.

"Nah," he said, after a long moment. "On yer way with ya."

Oblivious, Aramis beamed and placed his hat carefully on his head, his fingers skimming over the brim to straighten it. As he walked out, he paused in front of Athos.

"Athos," he murmured, tilting his head.

Athos barely acknowledged his passing.

d'Artagnan remained, sitting beside Porthos, occasionally casting glances at the still form in the corner, whose only movement was the rise and fall of the pewter mug to his lips.

"It's as if he rips out 'is heart, places it on the table in front of him, and then dares it to start beatin' again."

d'Artagnan was silent. What could he say to that?

"For a man so in control of 'is body, 'is heart gets away with him sometimes."

oOo

 _A week was a long time in Athos's new world._

 _Now, in his rooms, staring out of the grimy window, he thought about what Treville had said._

 _"You are not a prisoner. Only to yourself."_

 _Movement caught his eyes and he watched as a cat stalked a pigeon on the opposite roof. Normally, he wouldn't have noticed, but he suddenly found himself wanting to give the pigeon a chance. He picked up his sword and tapped it on the window sill. A loud flurry of_ _wings, and the pigeon made clumsy flight as the cat slunk away. His eyes dropped to his blade._

 _Honour and duty, for France._

 _It was almost the family motto._

 _A groan escaped him and he sank to the floor. He would give a humble pigeon a chance at life, but not himself._

 _It seemed he would need every one of the seven days Treville had allotted him. He was, indeed a prisoner._

oOo

"What did the Captain say to him?" d'Artagnan asked, as Porthos told the tale of their early encounter with Athos.

"Don't know, but it worked. He came back," Porthos said.

d'Artagnan nodded. Athos still drank. But then, so did Porthos. He had not seen Athos anywhere near the state that Porthos had confided.

"What starts it?" d'Artagnan asked, looking at Athos now.

"Who knows? A thought, a word, a memory;

"Until he lets us in, we can only deal with the aftermath."

"For how long?"

"For as long as it takes."

"Even if he doesn't let you in?"

"Even then."

That particular night, d'Artagnan walked behind, as Porthos steadied Athos, who spoke not a word, back to his rooms.

Many months later, d'Artagnan would witness Treville's reluctance to search for Athos when he disappeared. They had searched all his usual haunts, but there had been no sign of him. Treville's first comment was that he was probably drunk somewhere, which they all thought was out of order. As it turned out, when they had searched his correspondence, they knew where to look. He had been forcibly taken by his tenants, while drunk. His falls from grace were fewer, but he still fell occasionally; although now, never far from the brotherhood. He had tolerated their watchfulness and finally, accepted their assistance.

They were all damaged in some way, but by some miracle, they had found each other. Aided by a determined Captain, who looked like he had seen the worst side of life himself. Order and routine were their salvation. Acquaintance had turned from companionship to camaraderie and then, to brotherhood.

"We all have our dark secrets and deep emotions. Allow me to keep mine to myself," Athos had told Ninon de Laroque. Sometimes, it was difficult. Sometimes impossible. But they didn't need to know each other's dark secrets, nor witness those deep emotions to know they needed each other and would do all they could to keep the ties that bound them.

And there had been room for another damaged soul who happened by that cold, winter morning, it seemed; though his curiosity may get the better of him one day, Porthos thought, as he pulled a deck of cards from his pocket.

Athos did not look like he was ready to go yet.

He was still upright.

oOo

 **Athos pov**

 _Athos listened._

 _Treville was offering him the opportunity to live by the sword._

 _Duty and honour, for the protection of the Bourbon Dynasty. A roof over his head that he did not have to worry about maintaining. Self-contained men-at-arms he could mix with if he chose to, or not, as would probably be the case. Routine. Authority. Danger._

 _Once the oath was sworn, The Crown would own him. His life could be forfeited at any moment in order to protect the King. Dereliction of that duty would mean punishment or death._

 _That was how Treville had sold it to him._

 _Self-destruction with a noble purpose._

 _Treville had taken his utterances in a moment of weakness and had turned them about. That skill, in itself, had appealed to something in him, as he stared at the battle-hardened man in front of him._

 _Not a cure for a broken heart, but the naked truth of it was the probability that at least he would not reach a bleak, lonely dotage and that felt … acceptable. Until such time as his future was taken from his hands, he would walk this path._

 _In the end, his journey was prised, wrenched, taken from his hands by two very determined men who saw something in him that he had lost sight of, or perhaps had never allowed himself to see. And before he realised, he was not walking his path alone._

 _His world had shifted._

Now, he is not alone. That does not mean he is not still overwhelmed by memories of his previous life. Occasionally, they all are, as that life encroaches upon them.

Although his future remains uncertain, now when he allows himself to look, a world without his wife and his brother does not seem so desolate a place.

For the first time in a long time, he can breathe.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	72. Angel - Part One

**A/N:** Time for a modern AU, dear readers. It's a long one, so I'm posting it in two parts over the next few days.

oOo

 **72\. ANGEL**

 **Part One**

The public address system announced the arrival of the Amsterdam flight into Charles de Gaulle airport. There was a flurry of activity as people began to pour through into the arrivals lounge.

"Captain," Porthos smiled as he saw Athos approaching, back pack slung on his shoulder, while wheeling a small case behind him.

"You reminisce," Athos smiled, as he accepted the hug.

"You bet I do," Porthos said, pulling away and casting a critical eye over his former Captain. "They were good times."

"Some of them," Athos murmured, always surprised by Porthos's ability to not only wear rose-coloured spectacles, but to see through them.

"Aramis is still in the air," Porthos was saying, breaking him from his reverie. "We've got a little time to kill."

They had all served in the army together, but that was some years ago now. They had forged their own careers since; Athos, as a diamond merchant, sourcing stones for wealthy clients, which took him all over the world, with Amsterdam as his base. Aramis, as a New York paediatrician, having extended his training from trauma into a speciality that was close to his heart after fathering a child on a tour of Asia, where he had met a beautiful Japanese woman whom he had loved with a passion but who was, sadly, unattainable. Porthos had a successful chain of gyms in London and Los Angeles and a reputation as a personal trainer in California that had made him wealthy in his own right.

However successful they were though, they were brothers first and foremost and did all they could to maintain their close bond. Porthos had worked hard to build his business and for the first time in the last year, he was looking relaxed and happy.

"You are looking well, my friend," Athos said, gently, in an attempt to forestall Porthos's usual critique.

"I'm feelin' good. It's goin' well," Porthos replied, grabbing Athos's back pack and throwing it over his shoulder. "You don't look so bad yourself," he added, side-glancing his friend. "You could do with a hair-cut, mind."

Athos huffed. He had got away lightly, it seemed.

"Much of my work is done on-line and by phone. On the occasions I have to step out, I am always surprised by my failure to realise I have let myself go, somewhat," Athos replied, running a hand absently through his long hair.

"Well, that can be rectified," Porthos laughed, pointing across the concourse to a barber's shop, set next to an Italian coffee outlet.

Porthos caught his friend looking longingly at the large coffee menu on display.

"You go get settled in there," he laughed, "And I'll get us a coffee. Aramis isn't due for a couple of hours. I've already hired a car."

"I suppose there is no point in arguing?" Athos replied. He rather liked his hair longer, though his beard had grown a little too full for his liking. He resisted the urge to scratch it.

"None whatsoever, you look like a Yeti," Porthos growled. "You won't charm the ladies lookin' like that."

Athos did not respond. That would be the least of his ambitions, Porthos knew, but he never gave up trying to find someone to replace his friend's treacherous wife.

Undeterred, Porthos grabbed Athos's suitcase and steered his friend toward the Turkish barber who was keenly eyeing him up and already reaching for his implements.

oOo

Two hours later, Porthos and a newly-but-not-too-shorn Athos waited in arrivals for their friend's plane to deliver its passengers.

"You smell nice," Porthos whispered to Athos, as tired passengers began to pour through the doors ahead of them.

"Behave yourself," Athos growled, which made Porthos roar with laughter, though he did not tell Porthos he had bought a bottle of the fragrance Yussuf had applied after he had finished cutting and shaping his beard.

It was the sound of their large friend's laughter that guided Aramis eagerly toward them from behind a straggle of families with grouchy children and students plugging themselves into their mobile phones.

Suddenly Aramis was in front of them, beaming from ear to ear.

"Gentleman!" he cried. "I believe Paris awaits!"

"Where is the house exactly?" Porthos said after disentangling himself from the requisite group hug.

"Rue Ferou.* Within a few steps from the Luxembourg Gardens. Beautiful, serene and historic," Athos replied, holding out his hand for the key to the hire car.

"I'll drive," Porthos said, fishing for the keys.

When he looked up, Athos was giving him _that_ look, with a raised eyebrow to boot.

" _Drive_ is not a word I would use. _Lurch_ , perhaps," Athos replied, firmly.

"That's 'ow the Army taught me," Porthos growled. "It's a technique to save fuel. Foot on, foot off."

"The technique does not translate from Army vehicles to modern saloons. It is uncomfortable, and I doubt it saves petrol. You have a heavy foot, my friend," Athos replied, icily.

Aramis was trying not to laugh as Porthos reluctantly dropped the keys into his friend's outstretched palm. The three of them headed out of the airport to make a grocery stop before making their way to the house that would be their home for the next five days.

oOo

Arriving in one piece a little while later, Porthos dropped his bag on the floor of his room with a sigh and practically fell backwards onto the bed. Spread-eagled, he felt every muscle in his back loosen. Being a personal trainer was all very well, but being as busy as he had been had put a lot of strain on his muscles. However, he was loathe to pass his work onto his staff, as he was in that place where he was now being asked for personally. He couldn't afford to turn work down, nor not look in the best shape he could.

Before he could drift off, he rolled off the bed and grabbed a shower. Changing into a fresh tee shirt and a pair of new tracksuit bottoms, he headed downstairs to the kitchen, where he had dropped off their groceries.

The house was beautiful, of course; Athos had chosen it.

Different to his own choice on their previous break, which had them inhabiting a traditional finca cave in Valencia. Albeit furnished and spacious, it was windowless and so still too enclosed for their former Captain, who had decamped to a hotel after four days of _really_ trying.

Aramis was a sun-worshipper and so his choice always involved water, boats and sun-loungers, but he always ensured there was a good hotel nearby with a well-stocked bar.

Now they sat in the pretty, enclosed garden at the rear of the three-storey traditional house, beneath an old pear tree, drinking wine and tucking into the excellent meal that Porthos had prepared.

"I saw a sign for a market a couple of streets back," Porthos was saying as he dished out a second helping of lasagne for Athos, whether he wanted it or not. His friend needed fattening up, in his honest opinion. "I'll head out in the mornin' and get us some fresh bread."

"Don't we have enough food to last a month?" Athos smiled into his glass.

"For you, perhaps," Aramis laughed. "Some of us have appetites. Personally, it feels like I have lived on army rations for a month."

"Don't they feed you doctors, then?" Porthos said, pasta-coated spoon poised in mid-air.

"They do. But the food reflects the country we are working in, and, as you both know, some parts of Africa are better than others."

They fell silent then. Aramis had been doing some pro-bono work for a few weeks every year in some of the poorest regions for a few years now, before returning to his role in the children's ward of a large New York hospital. It was the contrast between the client-base of the two that had driven Aramis to his altruism.

They had all worked in Africa when in the military and were well aware of what Aramis had been facing.

Athos raised his glass.

"A toast, Gentlemen. To us. May we all find what we are looking for."

"At least during this break," Porthos added, as they all clinked glasses.

As the streets grew quiet behind the high walls, sleep tugged at them and eventually they all said their good nights and retired to their respective rooms.

As it turned out, it was to be a prophetic toast.

oOo

Over the next few days, it became Porthos's tradition to head off to the market for fresh bread every day. By the third day, they had settled into a relaxing regime of good food, excellent wine, art galleries, theatre and walks in the late Spring sun.

On the fourth morning, Porthos had already headed out when Athos decided to go in search of coffee. They had depleted their store in just three days and there were a few neighbourhood outlets which emitted some very enticing aromas.

Stopping off to buy a paper, he tucked it under his arm when he spotted a familiar figure heading away from him down an alley across the road. Making his way across the street, he ducked into the alley, but if it was Porthos, he was gone. There was an obvious dog-leg turn up ahead and without knowing where the alley led, he turned back.

A few moments later, he felt someone grab his shoulder and spin him around. Caught off guard, he dropped his paper as he was pushed into the wall, under the glare of two hooded strangers. There was no-one else around, the bend in the alley had not only hidden his attacker's approach, but shielded them from view from that end. Athos took a step to the right, to bring them out of the shadows and into the patch of sunlight that fell on the entrance of the alley.

In doing so, the two lunged.

oOo

Running an exasperated hand through her long hair, the woman sighed as she fought to keep her temper.

"Surely you don't need me to tell you how to negotiate, Bertrand!"

Absorbed in the frustrating conversation with her business partner, she slowed to a halt on the pavement, resisting the urge to stamp her foot in fury. She rarely lost her temper but this was too much. She had been working on this for months and it was slipping away from her. Tossing her hair back, something caught her eye across the road.

Two men; no, three, and the glint of something in the sunlight. Two of the men were wearing grey sweatshirts, with the hoods pulled up, which was unusual in the Spring sunshine.

She watched carefully as the man initially stood his ground before reaching into the pocket of his jeans and handing something over.

Bertrand was still talking but she had ceased to listen. A man was being robbed in broad daylight. In her neighbourhood, no less!

Whatever was handed over was quickly grabbed by one of the hooded men, but the other one now reached for the man's wristwatch.

It was then that the man exploded into action.

Pulling his hand back, he threw a powerful punch which sent the thief reeling backward. In doing so, though, he had left himself open and the other thief delivered a blow to his left side, before grabbing his companion. At that point, as the man doubled over, the woman turned her phone on them and shouted, as she took a photo of the scene unfolding in front of her. Not only that, but she began to run across the street, punching in the emergency number as she ran.

Her furious cries were drawing attention and the two thugs decided it was time to go, heading back up the alley and disappearing around the corner.

The man looked up, startled to see the fierce, blonde vision coming toward him, her hair backlit by the sun. It took his breath away. He was just wondering how it was possible for her to move in slow motion, when suddenly, the alley tilted violently and his legs gave way.

She reached him as he slid down, coming to rest upright with his back to the wall; one leg bent beneath the other. She was talking, but he couldn't make out her words.

His eyes strayed down to his wrist and he sighed in relief.

His watch was still there.

oOo

With the phone clamped to her ear, she knelt in front of him.

He was well dressed. Dark jeans and boots, an expensive, navy v-necked sweater with a white tee shirt underneath. Well-groomed and wearing a very nice, masculine, rather arousing fragrance.

 _Where did that thought come from?_

 _S_ he angrily shook herself and reached for his hand.

He had given them a money clip, she realised now, as it was discarded on the floor. They had taken the money and discarded or dropped what was probably worth more, as the clip was obviously solid gold and held one rather exquisite diamond in the centre of the bar. The money should have been enough for the likes of them, but they wanted his watch and he had exploded.

Now connected to the police dispatcher, she lost no time in speaking to - no, demanding, that someone get the hell here, as she tucked the money clip into the pocket of the man's jeans.

Keeping the line open, she followed relayed instructions and reached out and gently moved his arm away from his side.

"There's a knife!" she said in horror, suddenly realising that his sweater was wet. "There's a knife in his side."

It was almost buried in his ribs under his arm, with just a section of the blade showing.

She had thought he had just been struck and possibly winded, before remembering seeing something glinting in the sun from across the street. It had been that which had drawn her attention. The dispatcher was talking, but she wasn't listening now as the man in front of her had stirred at her sudden exclamation;

"Where?" he suddenly murmured, thickly, reaching with his hand in the general direction of dull pain.

She put the phone down and carefully guided his hand toward it and he groaned.

"Mustn't take it out ..." he said. "It will … cause too much damage."

"That's what they just said," she said softly, pulling her silk scarf from around her throat and beginning to wrap it around the blade. She pushed her hand firmly against the wound, biting back a sob.

"S'good," the man said, looking up.

Their eyes met.

He stared at her with wide green eyes, before reaching up in an attempt to touch a long strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder.

"Be still," she murmured. "They're coming."

He frowned and tried to speak, but she put her finger to his lips.

"Sshhh. Save your breath."

For she could see he was struggling now. Struggling to breathe.

 _Where are they … where are they?!_

She could sense people behind her now. She twisted around, to see people beginning to hover.

 _For God's sake!_

"Is there a Doctor here?" she called out, firmly. No-one spoke, they just shuffled their feet and strained for a better look.

"Anyone?!" she glared at them. "Well, sod off then, or one of you at least go and wait for the ambulance. Make yourselves bloody useful."

Galvanised into action, a couple of them went to stand in the entrance to the alley, casting looks back in case they missed someone actually dying in the street.

She turned back to the man and realised he was probably her age. Her heart twisted, as he was still staring at her.

"I wouldn't argue with you," he whispered, his lips pulling into an approximation of a smile, but his eyes were beginning to glaze and his breathing was becoming laboured.

He was moving now, his face intent, his hand reaching for his other pocket, where he struggled to pull out a phone. She helped him and he looked up at her once more with those green-grey eyes, pupils blown. Her stomach twisted, as she took it from his shaking hand.

" _Aramis,"_ he said, before gathering himself one last time. "Aramis."

"What's your name?" she asked gently.

She watched his lips move, the frown deepening on his forehead.

"Athos," he finally managed.

She smiled in assurance that she _really_ didn't feel.

 _Athos._ She had this stranger's name and could describe him. That was good.

She started to scroll through his contacts with her free hand when his head dropped forward onto his chest with a long sigh.

"No, don't you dare!" she ordered firmly; dropping the phone in her lap and reaching forward and gently pushing his head back to look at his face.

Just then, she heard sirens.

"They're here, Athos!" she cried, urgently. "Hold on, they're here."

His eyes were shut though and his breathing was becoming more laboured by the minute. Her right hand was still clamped to his side, her pale silk scarf unrecognisable now.

There was a larger crowd around them now as the ambulance pulled up and two paramedics spilled out.

As the crowd turned away to watch their approach, and before the medics arrived at her side, she quickly unclipped Athos's watch and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket.

oOo

Aramis was running.

The call had come as he was getting out of the shower and he had fumbled amongst his clothes, discarded on the bathroom floor, for his phone, before pushing his wet hair from his eyes and trying to make sense of the unfamiliar voice coming through.

Someone, a woman, was shouting at him above the sound of sirens. She was describing Athos, saying his name. And then ...

He heard what he needed and threw his clothes on, running down the stairs two at a time and out of the house.

The infirmary she had directed him to was not that far. They had seen signs as they drove through the city.

Quicker to run.

 _God, can you hear me?_

He dodged around a woman with a pushchair and ran across the road, weaving between traffic, not hearing the resultant curses and car horns.

God still hadn't gotten back to him, but he was punching Porthos's number as he ran and repeating what he knew. Porthos was being stubborn.

"I don't know who she is!" Aramis yelled as he ran. "She says she's in the ambulance with him," Aramis panted. "You know as much as I do. Just get there, Porthos. Please."

It was a short call. He cut Porthos off, just yelling the destination again for good measure, and he kept running.

oOo

Her knee was grazed.

She rubbed absently at it, as she sat in the back of the ambulance.

She had picked up his phone in the alley and had scrolled through his contacts, standing back from the paramedics, who had crouched in front of the man, Athos. All too soon they were loading him into the back of the ambulance, the knife still sickeningly in situ, and she was swept along with them. Casting a look over her shoulder, she shuddered as she saw the pool of blood they were leaving behind.

The door had slammed shut behind her as the paramedic unhooked a metal seat and guided her into it. Looking down, she saw she still had his phone clamped in her hand.

 _What was the name he asked her to ring?_

The driver hit the siren and pulled away, as she reached the end of the contact list. Her mind was a blank. She didn't look at what the paramedic was doing. Athos was on his side, his sweater cut from him, his tee shirt going the same way. Eyes closed. Unresponsive.

She could smell the fragrance. She doubted she would forget it.

She scrolled back to the top and was beginning to panic when a name leapt out at her.

It was the first name on the list.

 _Aramis._

Tensing, she hit dial and waited.

The paramedics were shouting at each other, instructions going backward and forward between the driver and the one next to her, now pulling out an oxygen mask.

She squeezed her eyes shut,waiting for this _Aramis_ to pick up.

And then, a voice. A kind voice.

"Athos! What is it, mon ami? Are you lost already?"

So she had spoken; ruining his day and most probably, shattering his world.

oOo

Athos was whisked away when they arrived and she stumbled from the ambulance. Directed to a waiting room on the first floor, she told them what Aramis had managed to yell at her while he was running, before he rang off;

" _Tell them he doesn't react well to anaesthesia. His blood pressure will drop."_

She sank onto a hard-backed chair.

Thankful that she was alone, she dropped her face into her hands and allowed the shock to finally take her and the tears to fall.

She had settled a little later when the door suddenly flew open and two men came noisily into the room.

One, a doctor and the other, a man who looked not unlike Athos, with long dark wavy hair and a beard, who was talking animatedly to the doctor. She understood little of the medical jargon they were using. The doctor noticed her finally and put his hand on the other man's shoulder.

"This is the lady who came in with your friend," the doctor said. "From what she has told me, she probably saved his life."

The dark-haired man turned and saw her.

She pre-empted him by rising to her feet.

"Are you Aramis?" she asked, as she rose. "Athos's friend?"

"Yes …" he said, momentarily caught by surprise; realising he was staring.

"Ninon," she said, stepping forward and extending an elegant hand, "de Larroque."

Before he could react; hug her, kiss her, for what she had done, the door crashed open and Ninon took an alarmed step back.

"It's alright," Aramis said. "This is Porthos. He's a friend too."

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

 ***** Dumas mentions Athos lives in Rue Ferou in The Three Musketeers


	73. Angel - Part Two

**73\. ANGEL**

 **Part Two**

 **Two hours later:**

"Why is it takin' so long?" Porthos growled, as he paced the waiting room.

"These things take time, Porthos," Aramis replied, watching his friend cautiously. He had sought out the doctor assigned to Athos as soon as he had charged through the entrance lobby. He had obtained as much information as he could, before being shown to the waiting room, where he had met Ninon. "His lung has collapsed," Aramis added. "He's lost a lot of blood."

Ninon shuddered as her mind slipped back to the floor of the alley; slick red in the morning sunshine. Suddenly she remembered something and reached into her pocket and extending her hand to Aramis.

"His watch?" Aramis said, as he took it.

"That's why they attacked him," Ninon said. "He didn't want to give it up. It must mean a lot to him, so I thought I would look after it. These things can sometimes disappear in such circumstances."

"Thank you. It was his brother's," Aramis said softly, folding his fingers reverently around the watch.

"His late brother. Thomas." he added.

"Ah," Ninon said, sadly. "That makes sense, now."

"Thomas's death was sudden and brutal," Aramis said. "It has taken some time for him to come to terms with it. This watch is very precious to Athos."

"It's a wonder he didn't kill them," Porthos added, across the room.

oOo

"Tell me about him?" Ninon asked, now three hours into Athos's surgery.

The atmosphere had been very tense. Aramis had persuaded Porthos to go in search of something to eat, as the man was running on adrenaline fumes, fit to blow at any moment. Now, he was back, bringing sandwiches and coffee, looking a little more in control and just in time to hear Ninon's request.

Aramis looked up, startled by her question.

"He has an interesting face," she said, softly, by way of explanation.

Aramis appeared to gather his thoughts, before replying.

"We are all brothers, in all but blood," he replied. "He was our Captain when we were in the army. Now," he added, with a smile, "he is a diamond merchant."

"That's quite a leap," she offered, but she was curious to hear more. Athos had only uttered a few words in the alley; but his voice was beautiful; there was a refinement to it that intrigued her.

"We met in the military," Aramis continued. "Did our time, and now we have our own lives, but we meet up every few months. We each choose a destination. This was Athos's turn and that is why we are here. He wanted us to see a particular play."

Porthos had been quiet, staring out of the window, take-away coffee cup forgotten in his hand.

"What play?" she asked, tentatively.

"I can't remember," Aramis sighed, rubbing his fingers across his forehead.

"Somethin' high brow," Porthos muttered. "Always tryin' to culture us up."

"Well, _you_ perhaps," Aramis smiled. "Some of us have poetry in our souls."

"I've got poetry," Porthos grumbled. "Just don't need subtitles for it."

Aramis permitted himself a laugh, before turning back to Ninon, to continue his Brief History of Athos.

"Athos's family are old French aristocracy and can be traced back a _long_ way," he continued, as he unwrapped a sandwich and offered another to her. She shook her head, and he placed it on the small table between them, along with his own, which suddenly seemed unpalatable.

"But he don't care about any of that," Porthos interjected. "Won't hear mention of it."

"Though his wife enjoyed the title," Aramis added, darkly.

"His wife?" Ninon had asked, in surprise.

"Not our tale to tell," Aramis replied, his mood now a little sombre.

However, after a moment, he brightened and, with a smile, he continued;

"He doesn't say much," he considered.

"He doesn't need to," Porthos interjected, as he and Aramis exchanged a look and a grin.

"You'll find out," Aramis said to her raised eyebrow.

"Does he have friends?" she asked. "Apart from you, I mean."

Porthos huffed.

"Doesn't need 'em."

"Doesn't want them," Aramis said.

"What sort of man is he?" she asked, rather puzzled now by their description of what seemed like a deeply private man.

"He is the best of men," Aramis said, softly.

"The very best," Porthos hummed in agreement.

She had thought these three were "more than" friends, when she first met Aramis and Porthos but it was obvious to her now that they were merely the best friends to each other she had ever met. There was such love in their words, such light in their eyes, she could only think that Athos must feel the same for them.

She had rarely seen a bond like it. It almost felt like an intrusion to be with them.

"You should know," Aramis said, gently, "He guards his heart. It was broken rather badly. But it still beats, despite his iron grip."

Aramis could see her interest was more than curiosity. Her "introduction" to their friend had been intense, terrifying. He had heard it in her voice that morning when he took her fateful call.

"And now, you have the measure of him," he finished.

But, rather than satisfied, she found herself wanting to hear more about Athos. To see him again and to hear his voice. Perhaps, even, to see his smile.

The look they had shared that morning had shocked her in its intensity, despite the circumstances, and the memory lingered even now as she sat in the stark waiting room and Aramis continued to share a little of their history with her.

She tilted her head and looked at him carefully;

"I rather doubt that," she replied, quietly.

There was much to learn, she knew. And, she had been told many times, she was tenacious. In this it seemed, she would need to be very careful too. Or she would answer to his two equally tenacious friends.

oOo

At some point, Ninon gave a statement to a weary gendarme who had appeared at the hospital. She also gave him the phone image she had taken of the two thugs attacking Athos. Apparently, there had been a few similar muggings in the area over the last few months, the officer had said.

"Wish we'd known that before we came," Porthos grumbled, rubbing his temples as the man left, promising to be "in touch."

"It's like that in most large cities, mon ami," Aramis said. "Athos was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"If I ever get my 'ands on them, they're dead," Porthos growled, slapping a tight fist into the palm of his hand.

Not for the first time, Ninon wondered about these men. Aramis and Porthos were both charming but she sensed a dangerous undercurrent. Perhaps she was misjudging them, knowing now that they were ex-military. And, after all, this had been an extraordinary day.

Ninon decided she would stay until the doctor brought news and then would slip away. She was not adverse to making the first move when she found a man attractive and if it had been under any other circumstances, things may have been different. She wondered what would have happened if she had merely bumped into Athos at the opera.

"What are you thinking, ma chere?" Aramis asked her, jolting her out of her reverie.

"I was just wishing I had got closer," she said before she could stop herself.

Aramis smiled. "That would have been dangerous," he murmured.

She had wondered what he meant by that, until she realised he was talking about the photo she had taken, and thinking she meant "closer" in order to get a better image.

"Perhaps," she replied, though it had not been the thugs she had been thinking about.

oOo

Finally:

"Friends of Mr de la Fere?"

"Here," Aramis leapt to his feet and indicated the three of them; including Ninon in their circle.

"We are all here for him," he added, trying to read the man's face. He knew all about inscrutable doctor-expressions.

"He is in recovery now," the doctor said, before adding, "He will be there for a while."

"His blood pressure?" Aramis asked, tentatively.

"Among other things, yes," the doctor replied. "We were given that information when you arrived, I understand?" he said, looking at Ninon. "Most helpful."

She nodded and Aramis reached out and squeezed her arm. "Thank you for remembering," he said.

"We have repaired the damage," the doctor was saying, addressing Aramis. "He had a resultant haemothorax, as you know, which resulted in the collapse of his lung, so the drain is still in his chest and will be for a few days. We've given him fluids and a transfusion and he will need to be carefully monitored, on all counts."

"But 'e's alright?"

"Hopefully, he _will_ be," the doctor replied. "He has a little way to go yet."

Aramis picked up on the doctor's words of warning; Athos was struggling. But Porthos blew out a breath, just happy the surgery was over.

"When can we see 'im?"

"In a little while," the doctor replied, cautiously. "Once we have him completely stable."

"Doubt he'll ever be that," Porthos said, grinning.

Aramis threw his arm around Porthos's shoulder and then patted his back.

"Told you he'd be alright," Porthos grunted, looking away and sweeping his face with is hand.

"I should go," Ninon said, picking up her bag, quickly.

"Do you have to?" Aramis responded. "Athos will want to meet you, and thank you."

Ninon, though, was looking flustered.

"I don't think ..."

"Please," Porthos said. "You can't just disappear. You saved 'is life."

"I doubt that ..." she began, only for Porthos to interrupt.

"There are CCTV cameras all along that street. I think it will soon become obvious what you did for 'im soon enough," he said.

She pushed her hair back from her face to gain herself a few minutes to compose herself.

"I can come back later," she said, softly.

"Good, then it's settled," Aramis smiled. "I have your number so I'll ring and let you know what room we will all be in."

She had things to do, but she needed time to herself to think. She nodded quickly to Aramis and Porthos and quickly left the room.

A few minutes later, Aramis slipped out in search of the doctor, finding him at the nurse's station ahead.

"I'd like to see him", he said, when the doctor turned toward him. "It may help."

The doctor knew Aramis was a paediatrician but he hesitated.

Aramis's eyes flicked down to the man's badge.

"I was a trauma surgeon for ten years before I became a paediatrician, Dr Martine," Aramis said, eyes boring into the man. "Athos will be disorientated. I am simply asking to be by his side to reassure him."

"And to reassure yourself?" the doctor said, off handedly.

"Of course," Aramis hissed. "We are brothers, and I have brought him through traumas in the past. He needs to know we are here. He nearly died in that alley."

The doctor's eyes swept over him, before he relented.

"Very well," he sighed, obviously exhausted. "My apologies. It's been a long night. Our shifts don't get any shorter."

Aramis relaxed. He had seen how busy the hospital was.

"Of course," he said. "My apologies too. I trust you doctor, but we three made a promise to each other many years ago, that is all."

"This way," the doctor said.

Relieved, Aramis turned and fell into step behind the doctor; eager to be at his friend's side.

They took the lift two floors up and emerged into another corridor. The doctor stopped at a set of double doors at the end and pushed one open. He stepped aside, making way for Aramis, and giving a curt nod to the two nurses inside. With the instruction that he would return in exactly fifteen minutes, he left Aramis to make his own way into the room.

Aramis pushed gratefully past him into the room where his friend was recovering from the lengthy surgery. One of the nurses, reading his expression, guided him over and he quietly slipped behind the drawn blue curtain.

"Athos?" he whispered, leaning over his friend, who was laid on his side, the tube the doctor spoke of in place, continuing to drain fluids from his chest cavity.

Athos though, was still heavily sedated and did not respond.

Aramis sank into the chair next to the bed and grasped his hand, bringing it up so that the back of his friend's hand was pressed to his own cheek; arm resting against his shoulder. He pressed the side of his face into the cool, limp hand as he started to speak;

"I can only stay a few minutes, my friend. I know you like straight information. So here it is. You've been unlucky enough to be stabbed. Hopefully, the worst is over; you're in recovery now and you'll be here for a few days. But it was a close call and you're not quite out of the woods. It's up to you now, brother.

"Remember our oath? Before we went on a mission? That's really why I'm here.

" _All for one_ , Athos.

"We're both here, Porthos and I. And there is someone else here for you to meet. So don't give the nice nurses a hard time. Just concentrate on getting better now. No scares, please?"

He didn't know if Athos had taken it in, but he had done what he wanted to do. Just the two of them. He felt a little better as he kissed his brother on the forehead.

As he pulled back, he saw Athos blink once. He rested his hand gently against his cheek, and then the door opened and the Doctor Martine waited while he stood and made his way toward him.

oOo

When Ninon returned, she wasn't sure what she would find, but she was drawn to these three men and wanted to see Athos again. The image of him in the alley was in the uppermost of her mind. True to his word, Aramis had texted her the room number they had now moved Athos into and where they all were, together now. However, as she approached the room, she felt trepidation. Their invitation to return was obviously heartfelt, but she did not want to intrude.

Pushing back her uncharacteristic self-doubt, she straightened her back, took a breath and pushed open the door.

Only to lose that breath at the sight before her.

The room was not large but what space there was was filled by the hi-tech station that comprised a wide, state-of-the-art bed, wired into machines and monitors. Amid all that, propped in the requisite reclining position for his injury, was Athos; eyes closed with an oxygen mask on his face.

She had blocked the image of him in the ambulance from her mind, concentrating on that first call to Aramis, shock finally setting in and making her shake. Now, draped in a blue hospital gown, a drain obviously in place in the side of his chest, Athos looked worse than he had in the alley.

Her eyes caught sight of the large plastic bag on the floor, through which she could see the remains of his sweater, jeans and tee-shirt. One sock was visible through the plastic. A dark blue sock with naval motifs; bright little boats in yellow and red with a white rope weaving between them.

Porthos caught her staring and reached down to shift the bag under his chair.

"He likes mad socks," he said, gently.

Suddenly, the bubble burst, as Aramis stood up and came quickly toward her.

They were both there. Of course they were, and they were either side of her now, guiding her to a chair. Porthos poured water and thrust a glass into her hand.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I don't know what I was expecting … I thought he would look better."

"It looks worse than it is," Aramis said. "All this," he added, indicating the bed, "is helping him."

oOo

Time passed, afternoon turning to evening.

The room grew dark, but the bed was an island of bright, medical light. Monitors beeped and the respirator pump clicked softly up and down with the hiss of oxygen that flowed into the mask as Athos breathed.

They were largely left alone, but Aramis and Porthos kept up a quiet litany of chat as they held his hand, waiting for him to wake, often drawing her in, never forgetting her.

Slowly, the sedation began to wear off, and finally, in the early hours of the following morning, Athos opened his eyes. Raising his hand, he pulled the oxygen mask down as his eyes swept between Aramis and Porthos.

He held a shaking hand out, and Aramis placed his on top of it. Porthos leaned over and covered their hands with his.

"All for one," Aramis and Porthos said together.

"Welcome back," Porthos said, then. "You took your time."

"Porthos," Aramis scolded gently, "You know our brother needs his beauty sleep."

He gently pushed the mask back in place.

"Keep it there a little longer," he said, as he pushed the buzzer to call the medical staff.

Almost immediately there was a flurry of nurses making him comfortable. Blood pressure was checked, along with the staples in his side and the drainage tube. The monitor was turned low enough not to irritate. The mask was replaced with a nasal tube. It all left Athos thoroughly exhausted and he slept for a further two hours, leaving the three of them time to stretch their legs in relay and refuel.

When Porthos and Ninon returned, Athos was awake again and Aramis had perched on the edge of the bed and was peering intently at him.

"How do you feel?" he asked, gently. "Do you remember what happened?"

Athos frowned, his hands resting lightly in his lap.

"Confused," he said, slowly. "I was getting us coffee," he added.

"What were you doing in the cut-through?" Aramis asked then.

Athos looked from him over to Porthos.

"I thought I saw you," he said to Porthos. "But you disappeared."

"Wait ..." Porthos said. "What? I went to the market. To get something to make for lunch."

"I was getting us coffee," Athos said again.

Porthos was shocked.

"Athos …you probably did see me. I must have been ahead of you while you were … _I'm so sorry!"_

"You couldn't have known," Athos replied, before frowning once more. "Someone was there. She helped me."

Aramis turned then and looked toward the other side of the room and he beckoned.

Athos's eyes flicked past him, coming to rest on the beautiful woman now rising from her seat in the shadows.

"Athos," Aramis said, softly, "This is Ninon."

As she came toward him, Athos's eyes widened.

"The angel," he whispered.

Aramis exchanged a look with her and smiled. "An avenging angel, it seems," he said.

"I remember," Athos murmured, staring at her, quite lost for words.

"We'll leave you two to get re-acquainted," Aramis beamed, looking over at Porthos, who took the hint and nodded. "Be back soon," he rumbled, at the look of uncertainty on Ninon's face.

"That was subtle," she said, when they had gone, turning to look at Athos, who now had a small, amused smile on his face.

"They don't know the meaning of the word," he replied. "I think … I owe you a scarf?".

"You remember that?"

"Yes," he said. "I thought you were an angel ..." he repeated.

"Hardly," she huffed. "More a hard-nosed business woman just trying to save a deal."

"My apologies for interrupting you."

"There'll be other deals. You were more important," she smiled. "You should sleep now. I'm sure your friends will be here when you wake up."

"Will you?" he murmured, sleep already taking him.

"We'll see," she smiled.

oOo

Porthos was there when he next opened his eyes.

It was daylight now.

Athos pulled his head back slightly to bring his friend's face into focus. He studied him for a moment before his face softened and he slowly smiled.

"Hey," Porthos said gently, watching him wake up. "How's the holiday so far?"

Athos considered for a moment, registering the dull ache in his side and overwhelming exhaustion.

"Could be worse," he murmured, rolling his head slowly from side to side to ease the muscles in his neck, tight from his upright position.

Porthos pressed his lips tightly together, which made Athos reach out a hand to him, which was taken with infinite care.

They stayed like that for a long few moments; Porthos with his head down, staring at their hands.

Then, Porthos sniffed.

"So, what do you think of Ninon?" he rumbled, mischief now creeping into his voice.

" _Porthos ..."_ Athos groaned.

"What?" Porthos replied, unabashed, raising his head and locking eyes with his friend.

"Somethin' good's got to come out of this, Ath," he said, his voice catching.

In reply, Athos squeezed his hand.

oOo

She was beginning to realise that something was afoot. Aramis and Porthos spent the following day leaving her alone with Athos. In the end, even Athos realised.

"As I said," he said, as Porthos remembered he had to run an errand, "Subtle they are not."

"I thought you were dying," she suddenly blurted out.

He did not respond, and she watched him carefully.

"Did _you_ think you were dying?" she asked him.

"It crossed my mind," he replied quietly, looking away.

"A barely adequate answer," she murmured.

He did not expand. She was learning that he said more by what he didn't actually verbalise. And then there were _the_ _looks_. That was a whole thesaurus in itself.

"But then, there you were, my Avenging Angel."

"You have to believe in the notion of angels to think you have seen one," she said.

If she thought she could draw him out, she was mistaken.

"Beliefs are fluid and notions are transient. If I have learned anything from experience, it is that," he responded.

She noticed he had Thomas's watch back on his wrist. Aramis must have returned it.

"There are so many wonderful things to explore in this life, Athos. Don't shut yourself off because of a tragedy not of your making."

He saw she was looking at the watch, Aramis had told him she had held it for safe keeping.

"When we lost my brother," he said, "My mother told me, when someone dies an angel is there to meet them at the gates of Heaven, to let them know that their life is just beginning."

"That's a lovely sentiment," Ninon said. "And somewhat comforting, in the circumstances. I wish I had know that when you were bleeding all over the alley. Do you believe in fate, Athos?" she ventured.

"As pre-determined destiny?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I think that what is meant to happen will always find a way."

In response, she reached for the fine gold chain around her neck and lifted it up for him to see. It bore a small gold charm; a pair of angel's wings.

"My mother's," she said.

"Beautiful," he smiled, his eyes wandering from the necklace to her bright blue eyes. He was beginning to think that she was a remarkable woman.

oOo

Once assured that Athos and Ninon were well acquainted, Aramis announced that as Athos would remain in the hospital for a few more days, they had extended their rental of the Rue Ferou house for another week.

The play that Athos wanted them to see was playing for a further three months. As it turned out, it was Cyrano de Bergerac, a classic tale of a charismatic swordsman-poet who helps another woo the woman he loved. Porthos had given her a wink when he had read out the synopsis to her, which had made her turn her head away and smile. She was beginning to become quite fond of these two.

"Perhaps you'd like to join us, Ninon?" Aramis asked, locking his dark brown eyes on her. "It can be easily arranged."

"Oh," she said, surprised.

"It's alright, you get used to 'im." Porthos said.

Aramis side-glanced Porthos and they shared a smirk.

"They're smirking," Athos said, without looking at them.

"So are you," Ninon laughed.

"I have no defence," Athos said, staring into her blue eyes. "And certainly none against angels," he added. "Or devils," he finished, giving his friends an attempt at his best glare, which fell somewhat short.

Aramis and Porthos continued to grin at him, waiting for his response.

"That's settled then," Athos murmured.

"You do realise you're still on a lot of medication?" she said.

"The theatre will not over-tax me, and I have a strong constitution," he replied, amused and grateful for her evident concern.

"That he does," Porthos grunted behind them.

"What have I gotten into here?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing you cannot handle, I am sure," Athos smiled, reaching for her hand, which she willingly took.

"Amen to that," Aramis and Porthos said in unison.

" _Amen_ ," Athos sighed, the merest hint of a very contented smile on his lips.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

 **A/N:** Thinks: I may expand on this one, outside the Infirmary Talks verse. There may be mileage in this relationship, perhaps?


	74. Awakenings

**74\. AWAKENINGS**

"Athos. Wake up, my friend."

"I am not Athos," he had said.

For if he _was_ Athos, _she_ would be gone. He was Olivier.

But Olivier lived in another time. Another place. Closely guarded.

Looking back, when the past encroached, he realised he had had no real thought for his tenants; there to tend the land.

He had not given thought to their struggles. They had a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, if they worked hard. Illness and death was part of life. He gave no thought to their _individual_ highs and lows.

He had once dismissed a groom for drunkenness; had him horse whipped and thrown off his lands for neglecting the horses. Not mistreating; neglecting to care for them to the high la Fere standards. He had not thought as to _why_ the man had sunk low. Duty decreed the punishment and Olivier, the Comte de la Fere, cared more for the horses than he did for people. His father had seen to that.

Until Anne and his awakening.

Oh, how he had awakened.

She had laughed. And looked at him with eyes of fire that both challenged him and gave him courage.

She showed him another way and his eyes were opened.

His heart had soared and his blood had flowed through his veins with an intensity that had amazed him.

Everything amazed him.

His world changed and she became that world.

It had lasted barely a year.

When it ended, he left his lands.

He had sat on the harbour at Le Havre, watching the ships that sailed to distant lands. That had been his intention. But, he realised he could equally drop off the quay and sink down. Sit beneath the iron steps until his lungs filled with seawater. He had heard it was a calm way to die. He doubted that. Why should he grant himself a serene passing? He had not thought through a similar outcome for Anne. _That_ was the threshold he had stepped over. From her awakening of his soul to everything that was joyous into the dark cellar of his present existence.

Olivier was as dead as Thomas.

And Anne.

Now, he was in Paris, gradually working his way into its black heart.

At first, he sought taverns merely to sit in shadows, watching people with lives to live. Flinching at their laughter. Watching their anger over some perceived injustice. Closing his eyes to their expressions of friendship and love, if only for the serving girls. He saw and recognised some who felt nothing and drank to oblivion, although now "Athos," as he called himself, thought perhaps they felt too much.

Gradually, he became one of their ranks and fully closed himself off. And so he returned to who he was before her. Aloof and friendless. Worse now though, for the cruelty of her awakening.

Unseeing now. Sleepwalking in anger and pain.

"Athos … where are you, my friend? Wake up."

 _Porthos_. It was Porthos who asked this of him.

Porthos, who called him friend, though he had not known him long.

Porthos, a man who had been awake his whole life.

A man who had seen everything, missed nothing and cared about everyone, now called _him_ friend.

And asked for a new awakening.

And so, he would awake to a new life. A new name and a new heart;

Heart and man battered, but serviceable it seemed, with a little coaxing.

Would Olivier have recognised Porthos?

Perhaps not. But Olivier was gone. And so, Athos woke once more.

He was Athos. A friend of Porthos and it seemed, a man who could now feel.

Porthos needed reassurance. And so, Athos gave it, readily;

"I am here."

oOo


	75. My Tryst, My Wine, My Dinner - Part Two

Many thanks for continuing to read and review these Talks.

 **A/N:** This one is for those who wanted to know how Athos, Porthos and Aramis got their revenge on d'Artagnan, after the first part of this tale, which is Chapter 66 of this verse, so you may need to refresh your memory on that one.

Also for Ula, who asked for another humorous story, so hopefully, this will meet the bill on both counts.

oOo

 **75\. My Tryst, My Wine, My Dinner – Part Two**

Of course, d'Artagnan knew they would get their revenge.

They had all promised it. Individually. When they had called him to the Infirmary to "suggest" that he confess. And he did confess that, over the weeks, he had ruined a very special tryst that Aramis had lined up. He had changed Athos's wine into water (not like that) and he had ruined the prospect of Porthos getting the dinner he had set his heart on. All in the name of getting his own back.

It had almost worked.

He should have known he was doomed.

Porthos said they had "just got started," when they had revealed they knew he was the perpetrator. Aramis said he was in a _lot_ of trouble, and Athos – well, he had said he wouldn't seen them coming.

Athos had also said, "Be afraid," in that voice he used when he got that glint in his eye.

Now, he wished, as he watched them furtively from the stable, that he had just targeted one of them. But which one? He _had_ thought about it. He'd considered Porthos, but didn't relish being pummelled when they next faced each other in the training yard. He'd seen that look in the big fella's eyes when he was in that frame of mind!

And, he had deprived him of his dinner. He groaned. What _had_ he been thinking?!

And then there was Aramis.

It had been easy thinking of a way to play a trick on _him_. He was spoilt for choice.

Athos? Well, his stomach had flipped once he had decided to include _him_ in the three-way prank he was planning. Because, that was what he had decided on; to get all of them.

Ever since they had dragged him around the forest floor to make his uniform look a little more "authentic," he had been at the sharp end of their tomfoolery. Just once, he wanted to get the upper hand.

So, One for All, and all that.

Initially, it had all worked very well.

Even the good citizens he had roped in to help had thrown themselves into it wholeheartedly. He wondered, as he'd dropped the coins into the eager hands of the old crone, the landlord and the inn-keeper if they had a grudge against Aramis, Porthos and Athos. Although the grip the old lady had on his wrist as he attempted to take his leave and shown him what a game old bird she was!

The inn-keeper had given him a look that would have rivalled one of Athos's on a very bad day before realising he was getting paid for replacing wine with water. A nice profit assuaged any guilt he probably _didn't_ feel, so he didn't ask any more questions, after the initial interrogation.

The landlord was a much more light-hearted fellow and caught on quite quickly that they would be playing a trick on the Musketeer who was responsible for more brawls over his dubious card-playing than any Red Guard.

So, when all things were considered, it had gone surprisingly smoothly and he had been very pleased with himself.

But, he hadn't thought it _fully_ through. They had realised it was him when no tricks were played on _him_. A grave omission, as it turned out.

The trouble was, it was now "All for One." They were out for revenge.

Which was why he was watching them from afar.

Athos had said he "wouldn't see them coming."

So, all he had to do was keep them under surveillance, until thoughts of revenge against him were forgotten. It was a busy garrison after all. There was Palace duty and missions and such.

How hard could it be to keep his eyes on them?

They wouldn't know he was watching them when he was _with_ them. So the trick was to also watch them when he _wasn't_. But he was only one person and they were three.

Time for some careful planning. Honour must be served. They had started it, after all.

What he did not know, of course, was that they _knew_ he was watching them. They were watching _him_. Honour was their goal too.

Let battle commence.

oOo

Treville, who missed nothing, watched curiously, from his balcony.

Whether they knew he was watching them specifically was another matter.

The game ceased when they went on a mission, or were outside the Garrison, but it was quickly resumed once back at base.

However, what d'Artagnan had also not accounted for, was how _exhausting_ watching and, hopefully, keeping them at bay, would be.

" _You won't see us coming."_

A promise from Athos was as sure as night followed day.

Aside from all that, everything went on as normal. They ate together, they chatted, they took care of their horses.

Even so, d'Artagnan carefully and surreptitiously searched his porridge with his spoon each morning for anything untoward that had mysteriously been deposited into it, alive or dead.

Every door was scrutinised, top to bottom, should something disgusting drop on him from a great height.

He noted the glint in Athos's eye, the over-egged nonchalance that Aramis displayed and the coiled spring that was called Porthos, which ensured that d'Artagnan could not afford to relax, night or day. He checked his pillows, his sheets, even up-ending his boots each morning to ensure nothing slithered, or bit, or squelched when he slipped a foot inside.

It was all very disconcerting.

And so it went on.

Day after day, night after night.

Days turned to weeks.

Nothing happened.

But the glint, the feigned nonchalance and the over-abundance of adrenaline continued to surround his three brothers.

He was in no doubt that they had not forgotten.

He continued to watch and to check.

After several weeks, and several missions, d'Artagnan found himself beginning to think the unthinkable – that they had actually let it pass.

Until one afternoon when Porthos strayed onto unfamiliar territory, and d'Artagnan was once more on high alert.

Checking where Athos and Aramis were and satisfied he was in no immediate danger, he set off after Porthos, keeping him in view; dodging into garrison doorways and crouching behind barrels.

Porthos did not head outside, through the archway, but onto land behind the Laundry.

Madame Crecy's domain.

What on earth was he doing?

He was eating, d'Artagnan could see that.

It looked like a chicken wing.

Well, a little thing like that posed no danger, so d'Artagnan crept on, watching as Porthos ducked under sheets that were strung across the plot to dry.

Porthos was up to something, that was for sure.

Was this the beginning of their master plan? Visions played out in d'Artagnan's mind. Porthos had been the most on edge during the last weeks. He had been _very_ upset about missing out on his dinner. He did so hate injustice.

But just then, Porthos reached up for what looked like one of his shirts, judging by the size of it, and began to pull it from the line.

d'Artagnan relaxed and turned to go before Porthos saw him.

Unfortunately, as he turned, he stood on the abandoned remnants of Porthos's chicken wing, and his foot slid forward. Dragging his other foot after him, he reached up and grabbed the sheet in front of him. Momentum carried him forward and with a yell, he fell head first into the sheet and the line suddenly gave way. Sheets, pillowcases and towels followed and wrapped themselves around him like a caterpillar's cocoon and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, rolling around trying to extricate himself.

Behind him, he heard a bellow and groaned as he realised Porthos had also been caught up as the next line gave too, obviously capturing his large friend as well.

Still struggling, a more disturbing sound arose, coming closer; the banshee wail of what sounded like several washer-women, angry that their morning's work had been ruined by two idiot men currently rolling around in the dust and dirt!

Porthos and d'Artagnan's afternoon went from bad to worse as the women took up the birch twigs they used to beat the blankets and began to use them on the two grubby cocoons at their feet, which only made the two soldiers squirm around even more. The once-white sheets were now decidedly brown.

At the corner of the laundry, Aramis and Athos, who had seen d'Artagnan follow Porthos, peered toward the melee, cups of wine held in their hands.

Aramis winced as the washer-women became even more animated in their endeavours to beat the two offending Musketeers into freeing themselves.

"That's never going to work," Aramis muttered, before turning to Athos;

"Retribution satisfied?" he asked Athos, brightly.

"Oh, undoubtedly," Athos replied, a smile beginning to form on his lips.

oOo

 _"So what are we gonna do to the little bugger?" Porthos had growled the day after they had confronted d'Artagnan in the Infirmary._

 _"Tie him up and leave him on the roof?" Aramis suggested, as they sat at their table, d'Artagnan's eyes boring into them from across the yard._

 _"Tar an' feather the little blighter," Porthos suggested as he turned and winked at d'Artagnan, who quickly disappeared into the stables._

 _"Yes, Athos," Aramis said as he began to expertly quarter an apple with his knife. "What **is** your strategy?"_

 _Athos pulled his hat low over his eyes and propped a booted foot on a nearby barrel._

 _"We do nothing," he murmured, as he continued to watch the open stable doors through which their nervous young friend had disappeared._

 _"Come again ...?" "What?" Porthos and Aramis said in unison._

 _"I told him he would not see us coming," Athos replied. "That is because there will be nothing to see."_

 _When he received only blank stares, he explained;_

 _"I have always found that the anticipation of such revenge is much more taxing than anything we could think up."_

oOo

"A shame d'Artagnan didn't know we were not planning any revenge on him," Aramis now laughed. "I wasn't sure when you suggested it but when you said he wouldn't see us coming, you were right."

Athos agreed. "Much more satisfying, don't you think?"

Aramis hummed in agreement. "d'Artagnan has looked somewhat ragged of late."

"Indeed," Athos smiled.

Just then Madame Crecy came up behind them and shouldered her way briskly through, almost making them spill their wine.

They watched as she firmly took charge, pulling a dazed Porthos to his feet by his ear.

"Shame about Porthos," Aramis sighed.

"Collateral damage," Athos replied, as they clinked cups. "He should be more careful where he deposits his left-overs."

"Do you think we can watch?" Aramis pondered, as Madame marched their large somewhat meek friend past them, still holding his ear. They saluted his back as he was led inside the laundry, closely followed by d'Artagnan, still half-wrapped in a sheet, held tightly by three washer-women, no less.

A familiar voice came from behind as they watched as the Laundry door was firmly shut.

"I think that can be arranged," Captain Treville said, with a smirk, as he led them to a window at the north side of the laundry.

He had asked no questions over the weeks, but had seen enough from his balcony to know it would probably not end well for their young Gascon. He still had a lot to learn.

Inside the laundry, Porthos toiled over the copper tubs, re-washing the sheets he and d'Artagnan had ruined, while d'Artagnan folded sheet after sheet under the stern gaze of several very angry women.

Outside, Treville produced a bottle of wine from behind his back and his own cup and they toasted his two unfortunate men, currently on duty inside the laundry under a formidable female commanding officer.

"I trust I will have a peaceful garrison for a while, gentlemen," Treville said, as he re-filled their glasses.

"Oh, I think that is an absolute certainty, Sir," Athos murmured, watching as d'Artagnan finished folding one pile of sheets only to be promptly given another, even taller pile. "I think our young friend will put his youthful exuberance to much better pursuits in future, once he has bought us dinner tonight."

"Dinner is on me, gentlemen," Treville said. "I think d'Artagnan will have suffered enough by the time the women leave for the night."

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	76. Seasons

**76\. SEASONS:**

 **WINTER: Athos**

The seasons can be a blessing and a curse to those in the Infirmary.

The Infirmary in the _winter_ can be a forbidding place.

It is a particularly vicious winter this year. The worst in several years and the Infirmary is cold.

The stone flagstones bleed cold into the feet, even through the soles of well-shot boots if the wearer stands still for too long. There is snow on the windows sills and icicles hang over the glass panes so that opening the window becomes difficult. Not that anyone of sound mind would want to open a window.

March winds do not help the situation.

Winter brings snow storms that rattle the window frames. Sacking has been nailed onto the shutters to keep out the draughts, but this has led to loss of light, only adding to the gloom of the cold, stark rooms.

The delivery of supplies into Paris have been constantly interrupted, so that simple things like firewood and food are harder to come by as routes into the city are disrupted. The Seine has regularly frozen over, compounding the problems. Boats had dumped their produce and turned back rather than risk being caught in the ice and held up. That produce was quickly scooped up by any able person, though some mean-spirited boatmen had dumped their foodstuffs overboard, rather than give it away free.

In the Garrison kitchens, Serge has worked wonders eking out what he has, but the bread is less plentiful and the porridge is thinner. The milk is watered down, as is the ale. Main meals now are mainly soup and mulled wine.

In the Infirmary, fires cannot be banked up, as firewood needs to be conserved. They have taken to burning anything that comes to hand, but this causes the air in the infirmary to become thick. Warmed stones are placed into the beds of those unfortunates who are bed-bound, if the embers can produce any heat in the stones that are placed carefully upon them.

Sheets are scarce as there is nowhere to dry them fast enough. They freeze on the line. Each bed has two blankets, but it is still not enough.

Straw replaces horsehair mattresses as it generates heat. However, it is also food for the horses as it saves money on hay. The horses are inactive and want to eat all day and that must be curtailed; although they may themselves become food if this bleak winter does not release its icy grip soon.

Guards are doubled as the Garrison's neighbours grow hungry. Incursions into the Garrison's meagre vegetable plot and stores have increased of late.

As with the horses, training and drills are kept to a minimum to preserve energy and food.

There is an air of misery, frustration and anger.

Porthos has taken three blankets from the Infirmary; his sense of injustice heightened at the plight of the have-nots. The women of the Court of Miracles will cut them up and make six blankets from the three and so, six children will be warmer tonight.

Athos lies beneath a thin blanket, taken in haste from Treville's bed.

He is not aware of the predicament.

Porthos could not have known that the winter ague would strike the Garrison and that the Infirmary would fill after Athos had taken residence. He could not have known that Athos would himself be attacked in the marketplace after he had taken Porthos's place at the end of his shift.

It was Porthos who finally found him lying in a snowdrift, his blood a bright red against the stark white of the snow from a cut at the side of his head that had rendered him senseless. Aramis reiterates that head wounds bleed copiously, but Porthos can tell he is worried. Aramis has little to offer in terms of treatment; his stocks being depleted by the sickness that gets worse by the day. Porthos is only glad that Aramis did not see Athos lying on the red-stained snow.

Athos was attacked not because he is a Musketeer, but robbed because he may have been carrying coin. Had the attacker known, he could have saved himself the effort as Musketeers do not carry money. His weapons were gone though and Porthos knows that whoever did this would have money tonight. Whether he could find food with his ill-gotten gains was another matter. And whether he could hold on to his cache in the face of increasingly desperate people was a further consideration.

He holds Athos's cold hand, though he does not seek forgiveness from his unconcsious brother for the loss of blankets as he does not feel he deserves forgiveness. For he would do it again in a heartbeat and this is his dilemma.

The cold can kill as swiftly as any injury and he was surrounded by his sick brother's-in-arms, all suffering from the cold.

"What is it?" Athos asks, quietly, making Porthos jump.

Breathing a sigh and turning one of his best smiles on his newly-awakened, frowning oh-so-intuitive brother, he squeezes his hand.

"Nothin'," Porthos replies. "Just makin' plans to keep you warm," he says softly.

When Athos opens his mouth to reply, Porthos interrupts gently, reaching out a hand to lay on the side of his friend's face. He knows too well what Athos was about to say.

"Go to sleep," he tells him. "Let me think."

When Athos has been cajoled into sleep, Porthos tucks his scarf around his neck and makes his way to his Captain's office and pleads with Treville but the Captain is ahead of him and has already made up his mind. He is, though, grateful for Porthos's company on their impending journey.

They leave at dawn, the cart picking its way slowly through empty, icy streets. Horses are confined indoors for fear of injury but the Garrison's team-of-two are strong, steady, heavy brutes and their footing is sure.

Their journey is slow but sure and they eventually reach their destination. It has taken twice as long, considering how close the Garrison is to their goal. Cold, but hopeful, they pull the cart into the courtyard, where lights blaze from every window in the morning gloom.

oOo

Some hours later, Treville and Porthos return with, amongst other things, four bearskins; a gift from the King.

Louis's duties had been curtailed by the terrible weather and only the hardiest of travellers still presented their petitions to him. Otherwise, he had stayed in his apartments in front of a roaring log fire, incredibly bored with his loss of freedom. It had been a welcome distraction when Captain Treville and his Musketeer, Porthos, had arrived seeking an audience.

The King had been sympathetic to the plight of his Musketeers, although the Cardinal had swept past Porthos wrapped in his fur-lined cloak with the familiar look of disdain on his features that made Porthos always want to punch him. Thankfully, he did not, though once let into the Palace kitchens and store rooms, he did help himself to other necessities and little "extras." Treville turned a blind eye, as he had done when Porthos had taken the three blankets from the Infirmary a few days before. It was, technically, theft of His Majesty's property, but due to the sudden influx of patients into the Infirmary, Porthos had suffered for his act of kindness and Treville believed such things were lessons. Well-learned lessons in Porthos's case, though Treville knew his soldier would do it again and suffer the consequences should the situation arise. Luckily, this time, Treville had been a step or two ahead of his large, altruistic Musketeer and had anticipated his request.

So, along with the bearskins, blankets, firewood and fresh meat, all agreed with the King, Porthos had also snagged bread, grain and fresh milk. To that haul, he added dried herbs for Aramis, apples for d'Artagnan and cheeses for Athos. And, to keep up spirits, a few barrels of wine and ale.

Treville had raised an eyebrow as Porthos then pulled item after item from his pockets and loaded them onto the cart. The Captain knew that his soldier had a reputation for being light-fingered, and Porthos knew that Athos did not approve but right now, this morning, as the horses stamped their feet to chivvy along their departure, their breath freezing as soon as it left their nostrils, neither man concerned themselves over a _few_ extra items. It wasn't as if the kitchen staff and the storemen were not assisting them.

As they continued loading up the cart, Treville caught movement from a window high above them and recognised that the figure watching them was Cardinal Richelieu himself, his hand curled around the gold crucifix around his neck. As the moment hung in the cold air, they finally gave each other a brief acknowledging tilt of their heads and his Eminence stepped back into the shadows.

Treville and Porthos finished their task and climbed aboard the cart, ready to make their way back to the Garrison. Porthos shucked the reins and the two heavy horses began to move forward.

Winter would not claim Athos, nor any Musketeer.

Not in their Infirmary.

Not on their watch.

oOo

Thanks for reading! Next "Spring," with d'Artagnan.


	77. Seasons - 2

**77\. SEASONS 2**

 **SPRING: d'Artagnan**

The Garrison emerges from a hard winter into spring and is transformed.

As winter withdraws, the days lengthen and the warmed earth produces new growth. Abundant food finds its way into the mess as the kitchen garden begins to yield vegetables and supplies make their way into Paris. Linens and blankets blow in the warm breeze on the lines.

It is a time of hope and renewal.

For Athos, though, spring brings memories of meadows filled with forget-me-nots and of a life changed forever in the blink of an eye. Spring is not his favourite season and his recent mood confirms it. They had all developed the skill of avoiding eye contact with him, wherever possible.

d'Artagnan, however, comes alive in the springtime after the inertia of winter.

This morning, he had climbed a tree to help a young lad who had become firmly stuck. No doubt the lad was feeling the excitement of spring himself. d'Artagnan remembered the feeling of climbing the newly-sprouting trees, before the branches became heavy with leaves and blossom, which made the climb more challenging.

Scaling this particular tree was no problem, even earning him a round of applause from the crowd that had gathered below, hoping for a heroic rescue or, perhaps, a more dramatic outcome.

The lad himself seemed appreciative, once he had stopped wailing.

Persuading him to inch across and take d'Artagnan's hand had proved challenging, until d'Artagnan had produced a shiny coin. _Then,_ the lad moved quickly.

A little too quickly, as the sound of a cracking branch testified.

After that, d'Artagnan did not need to think about how to get the boy down, as the descent was rather quick.

d'Artagnan landed heavily on one foot and the offending branch smacked him on the back of the head. The lad scampered off with a cocky smile and a wave; the crowd had been thoroughly entertained, judging by their mix of laughter and head-shakes.

Luckily, Porthos chose that moment to push through the crowd to see what the commotion was. He helped brush bits of broken branch from his young friend's hair and pulled him into a semi-standing position, before realising this would be a painful limp back to the Garrison for one of them. Managing to suppress a grin, he was the model of a best friend, supporting his weight and muttering encouragement and soon, they arrived at the familiar archway.

Porthos let go of d'Artagnan's arm and allowed him to limp his way to the Infirmary, pride intact. Although d'Artagnan missed the knowing winks and head shakes Porthos gave to those Musketeers who watched his progress.

A sudden spring shower drowned out the sound of activity outside in the courtyard, as Porthos resumed his assistance, once in the confines of the Infirmary, helping d'Artagnan to hobble to a nearby cot. He settled him down and pushed a pillow under his knee as they both awaited the arrival of Aramis, who had an uncanny knack of knowing when his skills were required.

Porthos settled himself on the windowsill and mentioned that d'Artagnan had a slightly glazed expression, to which he received a grimace and a rude gesture. Which made him laugh. Loudly.

"I'll keep an eye out for Athos," Porthos then offered, helpfully. "You might want to get your story straight."

"What "story?" d'Artagnan cried. "I was helping a citizen. Musketeers do that. It's part of our role."

"Yeah. Lucky for you it was a boy and not a kitten, eh?" Porthos laughed.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth to say he would do the same for an animal, but then thought better of it, in case that nugget of information was relayed to their fearless leader. Who had not been in a particularly good mood for the past week. To say the least.

d'Artagnan heaved a weary sigh. To be confined in the springtime was frustrating. For all concerned.

Catching them both by surprise, Aramis breezed airily into the room, with a large bouquet of flowers in his hand.

"You shouldn't have," d'Artagnan muttered, glowering at him; thoroughly fed up now.

"Didn't I see you with those flowers makin' your way to the house of the moneylender?" Porthos asked. "His wife's that pretty little thing who buys ribbons in the market, isn't she?"

"Alas," Aramis sighed, tossing the flowers onto a nearby table, "She was not at home."

Ignoring d'Artagnan, he rummaged in the cupboard for something to put the flowers into.

"Her loss is our gain," Porthos offered.

"Or d'Artagnan's, it seems," Aramis replied brightly, swiftly moving on.

"Thank you. I think," d'Artagnan replied, sneezing.

Porthos grinned and picked up the flowers.

"Wait!" Aramis cried. "Where are you goin with those?"

"The lad's nose doesn't seem appreciative," Porthos replied. "The women workin' in the laundry will no doubt be glad of them."

"Sorry," d'Artagnan said, hesitantly. "Flowers always make me sneeze."

"Call yourself a farmboy," Aramis replied over his shoulder, giving up on the flowers and pouring water into a basin before picking up a roll of bandages and dropping it into the basin.

"I don't, actually," d'Artagnan sniffed. "That would be you."

"Well, I fear for your love life, if you cannot manage to carry a bouquet of spring flowers," Aramis replied, with a knowing smile.

"Sure he'll develop other talents," Porthos laughed. "Eventually."

Aramis gave d'Artagnan a wink.

"Can you remove these?" he asked, pulling on the leg of d'Artagnan's breeches. "Or do you need help?"

d'Artagnan pushed his hand away and grunted some inaudible response, before managing to shuffle them down.

Aramis and Porthos both sucked in their breath at the sight of his swollen knee.

Aramis set to and began to wrap the cold, damp bandage firmly around the knee. d'Artagnan closed his eyes and began to relax.

Just then, purposeful footsteps made them all tense and look toward the door.

Athos came to a halt, framed in the doorway, like The Angel of Death.

He eyed the three of them, before his gaze came to rest on Porthos, bunch of flowers still clutched in his large hand.

"This ain't what it looks like," Porthos grunted, wide-eyed.

"I don't doubt it," Athos enunciated, flatly.

Swinging around to Aramis, Athos pinned him with a steady glare.

"Verdict?" he said, tersely.

"Ah, yes," Aramis responded. "Our young friend has a swollen knee and a mild concussion."

He smiled devilishly. "And an acute case of hay fever."

Aramis looked triumphantly across at Porthos, who shook his head ever so slightly and waved his hand carefully, in an attempt to tell Aramis to let it go.

Aramis, however, was enjoying himself.

"It is Springtime, Athos. Young boys climb trees. Did you never climb a tree when you were a boy? Surely you must remember that?"

His smile was mischievous and he was ignoring Porthos's continued shake of his head, and d'Artagnan's careful study of the shutters on his right.

Athos merely stared at him.

"Climbing trees?" he eventually said, eyeing d'Artagnan, eyebrow arched, as d'Artagnan would have seen, had he dared to look.

"Oh, not _this_ young boy," Aramis explained. "A boy from the Court, stuck up a tree. d'Artagnan was assisting him down."

"That would be the boy who had stolen a woman's purse in the marketplace," Athos replied quietly.

That did get d'Artagnan's attention.

"He did?" he asked.

"He did." Athos confirmed.

Springtime had suddenly turned rather wintery.

Athos turned his attention then to Porthos, who slid off the windowsill and almost stood to attention.

As the green gaze moved to the flowers, Porthos almost put them behind his back.

"Perhaps you would like to take _th_ _ose_ to the unfortunate woman by way of small recompense?" Athos said, his eyes slowly moving up Porthos's arm to firmly pin him in place.

"Me?" Porthos grunted, his mouth dropping open.

"And him," Athos replied, turning the full weight of his gaze onto Aramis.

"I believe she is the wife of the money-lender," he continued. "I also believe you are quite familiar with her residence, and will need no directions."

Aramis swallowed, aware of three sets of eyes on him now.

Recovering, he gave a gracious bow to Athos, while reaching out and snatching the flowers from Porthos's hand.

"I can do that," he replied, quietly, all mischievousness now well and truly gone.

Athos gave them all one last lingering look, before turning on his heel.

They all listened as his footsteps faded, although they caught the comment he muttered darkly as he banged the door shut behind him;

"Roll on summer."

Aramis straightened and looked at Porthos.

"Better get going, then," he said, holding out the flowers to Porthos.

"Oh, no mate," Porthos growled. "This one's all yours."

oOo

Thanks for reading! Summer and Porthos is next.


	78. Seasons - 3

**78\. Seasons 3**

 **SUMMER: Porthos**

Summer – known as _'ete'_ in France, from the Latin word 'aestas,' meaning 'time of the heat.'

Long days and short nights. Flowers bloom in fields, meadows and forests all over the country. Temperatures vary across the land but summer is warm across the plains, in the hills and the mountains.

Occasional thunderstorms darken otherwise long blue-sky days.

Food is plentiful. Meat is tender as animals graze on new, succulent grass.

Aramis likes the summer. He is hot-blooded and summer suits his temperament. His job as _defacto_ medic is easier during the summer, as herbs and plants are plentiful.

It is a particular plant he needs now.

Porthos has been bitten by a horsefly. Possibly several horseflies. His leg is infected and twice its size. It had made Aramis wince and Athos frown when they finally managed to fully remove his boot. d'Artagnan had pulled in a breath and left the room. He could be forgiven; limbs could be lost to such seemingly innocuous injuries. In this case, large blisters have formed on Porthos's lower limb. Seeming to grow in size as Aramis examines him, they are filled with blood and the whole experience is very, very painful.

It had been an uneventful mission. They had camped in open countryside but it was the height of summer and the drone of insects had accompanied their journey. Once camped, they became a nuisance, until the fire was lit, which had deterred some of the swarms.

In the morning, however, Porthos noticed that his boot was tight. On careful examination, there were several small but deep slices across his lower leg, which he mopped at with a wet cloth. The skin seemed taut, though not painful. That came later, on their journey home. Whatever had bitten him, for it was a bite and not a sting, had been caught in his boot and had caused some damage. Still, it seemed more a nuisance than an inconvenience and Porthos said nothing. He would deal with it when they reached the Garrison. It was not an uncommon occurrence in the summer. As they journeyed back, they were all wafting their hands at the insects that flew around their faces; all thoroughly frustrated and eager to get back to their base. Their horses wafted their tails as they too were subject to the onslaught.

Athos had pulled his hat low and kept his head down. Aramis had resorted to wafting his hat at the annoying insects. d'Artagnan, who wore no hat, used his hand.

"That's why you need a hat, my young friend!" Aramis had called to him as he watched the frantic actions ahead of him as d'Artagnan began to use both hands, guiding his horse with his knees.

Aramis cast an amused look at Athos, who met his glance with a resigned shrug. They had all seen d'Artagnan after the recent thunderstorm with his long hair plastered to his head. Whatever he had against wearing a hat was being tested. Porthos said nothing. A headache was brewing at the back of his skull and he was becoming more aware of the tightness of his boot.

Eventually, he called a halt and Athos took out the small knife he held in his own boot and passed it to Aramis. Aramis began to cut through the seam of stitching at the back of his boot and eased the leather open, folding it down around his ankle.

"Better?" he asked, and Porthos had nodded.

"You should always check your boots, Porthos," Athos intoned without looking around.

"I did," Porthos growled as he leaned down and scratched his leg.

"Well, I'll take a look when we get back to the Garrison," Aramis had said, slapping his hand away. "Not far now."

oOo

Once at the Infirmary though, it was soon clear that this was a nasty injury, caused not by the small insects that had plagued them, but, Aramis pronounced, a horsefly. They were all familiar with this particular insect, but Aramis could not remember ever seeing a reaction such as Porthos was now experiencing. Left controlled, twenty horseflies could drain almost a third of a pint of blood from their victims in as little as six hours.

"It's just an insect sting, Aramis," Porthos had grumbled as Aramis pulled his boot from his foot.

"It is a _bite_ , not a sting, and if it's a horsefly, you need to take this seriously, my friend," Aramis had replied. "I have seen horseflies _this_ big," he added, holding his finger and thumb noticeably wide apart.

"We've all been stung … _bitten_ by a horsefly before," Porthos countered, watching as Aramis pulled out a bowl and filled it with water from a recently boiled pot.

"As far as I know, there are many different kinds of horsefly, and all of them are vectors of disease. It depends on what your particular one, or ones, feasted on before you," Aramis had replied, tersely.

Porthos made a disgusted sound but became a little more serious.

"Yeah, but you can give me somethin' for it," Porthos smiled confidently.

Only for his smile to falter at the look that Aramis gave him, or rather did not give him, as he quickly turned away.

"Aramis?" Porthos ventured.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis said, avoiding the question.

"I'm alright."

"Not what I asked."

"It's throbbin' a bit, and I've got a headache," Porthos grumbled.

Aramis felt his forehead.

"An' I'm a bit hot," Porthos added, before Aramis could speak.

"I'll make you a pain draught," Aramis said. "Try and rest. And keep that leg up on the pillow. Shout if you need me; I'm just in the other room."

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to find something to help you," Aramis said gently.

Porthos winked, but when it hardly raised a smile from Aramis, he frowned.

"You're worried," he said.

Aramis ran his fingers through his hair.

"A little, I confess," he replied. "Get some rest."

He waited for Porthos to lay cautiously back on his pillows and went to make up his pain draught.

At first, Aramis considered cauterization, but did not want to inflict that on Porthos, if there was any chance his leg would heal without such a harsh intervention. Instead he thoroughly cleaned and wrapped the leg with loose wet cloths. He made up a pain relief potion and left him to sleep.

Later, when it became apparent that the potion had had no effect, he gave Porthos a strip of leather to bite on as he unwrapped the wet cloth – bone dry now from the heat that radiated from his swollen leg. The wounds were infected, now filled with pus. Porthos bit down on the leather but still a strangled groan escaped him as Aramis pressed careful fingers around the blisters.

"Infected," Aramis murmured.

"What now?" Porthos said, removing the leather to ask a question Aramis had no answer to.

"Call if you need me," was all he could think of to say, as he went to join Athos.

"I'll stay with him," d'Artagnan said, hands tucked under his arms in a familiar gesture.

Aramis patted him on the shoulder as he walked past him and into the adjoining room.

Porthos was in agony. Short of knocking him unconscious to relieve his pain, Aramis was at a loss how to treat his leg without help. He had never felt so helpless. He needed an effective painkiller, as Porthos was currently shredding pillows in the next room. He also needed a treatment.

"Cauterisation," Athos said flatly, from behind him.

"There must be something else!" Aramis said, on his knees, opening the cupboard and taking out Brother Jerome's papers.*

As he remembered, all Brother Jerome's pain relief suggestions were along similar lines to the one Aramis had already used for Porthos, which had proved ineffectual; though he knew them to be highly successful for a wide range of injuries.

" _How can a horsefly cause so much damage_ ," his muttered to himself as his unrolled the papers and spread them on the nearby table.

"What about the medical journal you procured from the ship?"Athos asked.

Aramis frowned before swinging around and returning to the cupboard, opening the drawer above the cupboard and removing the heavy journal.

"A lot of it is in Latin," Aramis replied. "And mysterious. The Doctor obviously travelled far and wide and much of it is difficult to understand," he said, as he carried the medical journal he had purloined from the absent doctor's office on the abandoned ship he and Athos had found themselves marooned on earlier in the year.** He had certainly tried, burning candles down to the wicks long into the night as he poured over the text. Each entry included a symbol on the right of the page.

"Let me see it," Athos said, clearing the other side of the table and sitting down.

"Do you think you can decipher it?" Aramis asked, watching him. "Your Latin is much better than mine."

"I can try," Athos replied, waiting for it to be placed before him.

Aramis smiled and looked gratefully at Athos, the journal held reverently to his chest.

"I make no promises, Aramis," Athos said, as Aramis put the journal carefully in front of him.

"I hold you to none, my friend," Aramis replied.

"You still have the samples?" Athos asked, knowing that Aramis had also purloined several bottles from the ship's sick bay as well as the journal.

"In the cupboard," Aramis replied. "Alas, there are more entries in the journal than sample bottles. I believe the good Doctor had collected some samples but not had time to collect more, nor catalogue them all before calamity overtook them.

d'Artagnan came in then, and Aramis looked toward him.

"How is he?" he asked.

"In a lot of pain, though he's hiding it well," d'Artagnan replied.

"Did you make him drink?"

"Yes. Is there anything else we can do?"

"We are searching, but I have never seen a reaction like this," Aramis replied. "If his leg ulcerates, and it looks like it may, I have very little to fight it."

d'Artagnan came across and stood at Athos's side, watching as his mentor ran his finger over the text in the journal. Seeing that he could not help, and not wishing to disturb his brother's search, he returned to Porthos.

Aramis and Athos worked on, silently.

"Anything?" Athos asked quietly, lifting his head and looking across at Aramis, who continued to read through Brother Jerome's papers.

"There may be something," Aramis murmured. "Brother Jerome describes an ointment made of egg yolk, oil of roses and turpentine," he said, looking up.

"For what?"

"For an badly infected arm, the result of an injury from a farming implement. We need to gather the ingredients," Aramis said.

"Wait," Athos said, turning his attention back to the Journal.

"If it ulcerates, he may lose his leg," Aramis angrily whispered to Athos.

"A moment, Aramis," Athos murmured, his eyes scanning the journal before him.

" _Gaultheria Proc_ …" he continued, before making a frustrated noise. "I cannot make it out!"

"Let me see," Aramis said, coming to stand beside Athos. "He put symbols next to the texts to indicate the samples he collected."

Athos looked up at him.

Sure enough, there was a small square symbol with a circle inside it.

"The Doctor says the indigenous peoples of The Americas brewed this substance into a tea to alleviate headache, fever, and other pains. Apparently, with great success," Athos said, reading from the journal.

"A potent pain relief, then. And we know he visited The Americas, from some of his entries," Aramis replied. "Half of what he writes though, is a mystery. And what is this substance?"

"He does not say; just a partial Latin categorisation. There may be a sample of this particular substance," Athos replied. "See if you can find the sample that corresponds to this symbol," he added, tapping his finger on the symbol.

Aramis quickly went off to the cupboard and rummaged through it until he found the chest he had liberated from the ship's sick bay. Impatiently, he removed each bottle and searched each label. Many were old and indistinguishable and Aramis grew impatient as he searched.

"Aramis," Athos chided from across the room. "Take care."

Aramis cast him an angry look, and then sighed.

"I need to find it," he said softly.

Athos pushed the Doctor's book aside and rose to his feet. Crossing the room, he laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Let me help," he said, as he gathered a handful of the small glass bottles and placed them in front of him.

One by one, they examined the bottles between them. At one point Aramis thought he had matched the symbol but Athos shook his head.

They were about to give up when Aramis pulled out the last bottle, which was a dark blue colour with a wide cork. He rubbed the label carefully with his thumb and peered at it. Looking over his shoulder, Athos too, peered closely at it.

"Is it a match?" Aramis whispered.

"I do believe it is," Athos replied quietly, before crossing the room back to the table, running his finger down the page until he came to the symbol they were looking for.

Meanwhile, Aramis was pulling at the stubborn cork.

"Yes!" Athos confirmed, looking across at Aramis with relief.

But Aramis had pulled the cork and had tapped the bottle into his hand. All that fell into his palm were a few tiny useless pellets of dried up flora.

"Empty," he said, before slamming the bottle down on the cupboard top.

Athos picked up the bottle and tentatively sniffed it, before pulling his head back.

"What is it? Aramis asked him.

"It seems familiar," Athos replied, before placing it back on the cupboard top. "That is a great pity," he continued. "Put them back. There are other remedies listed that will be of use at some time or another."

"Just not this time,"Aramis said, tersely. "My pain relief is not touching him, and the leg grows worse.

"What about leeches?" Athos enquired, when they had put most of the samples back in the cupboard.

"Perhaps, but Porthos hates them."

"Does that matter?" Athos replied. "What else do we have?"

"Perhaps," Aramis conceded. "If the leg ulcerates."

"If we can find a remedy from both sources," Athos said, his hand resting on the Doctor's journal, "that may be sound evidence of their efficacy."

"We may be able to combine them," Aramis suggested.

"Invent our own treatment," Athos murmured.

"And save Porthos's leg," Aramis added softly.

"We need a strategy," Athos murmured, head down as he began to read.

"Yes," Aramis whispered.

"In the meantime," Athos said, firmly, "We have Brother Jerome's recipe, and it only needs three ingredients."

"Egg yolks, rose oil and turpentine," Aramis agreed.

"I can find the turpentine," d'Artagnan said, from the doorway, already buckling on his weapon belt.

"The egg yolks are not a problem," Athos said. "But rose oil?"

"It's expensive," Aramis replied.

"Perhaps Madame Crecy***?" a voice came from behind them. Treville.

He stepped into the room.

"She imbues fragrances into her laundry from time to time, doesn't she?" He gave them a brief smile.

"On special occasions," Athos agreed, looking from Treville to Aramis. They had all received a fragranced pillow or handkerchief at some time in the past few years from their formidable Laundress.

"There are roses in the Palace gardens," Aramis said hopefully.

"She will be arrested," Athos intoned.

"The Tuileries?" Aramis ventured.

"Same," Athos replied.

"Let's leave it to her," Treville said, gruffly, "She is not an unimaginative woman."

"I'll go and ask her," Aramis said, before pausing. "What about Porthos?"

"I'll keep an eye on him," Treville offered. "If he does not mind watching me do some paperwork."

"And I will get things ready here," Athos replied, marking the page in the journal and gently closing it. "We meet back here as soon as possible," he added, as they all dispersed.

oOo

Aramis came back quickly. Madame Crecy did not have rose oil to hand, but she knew how to make it. She had put on her cloak almost before Aramis had stopped speaking and had set out. Porthos was one of her favourites and she was eager to set upon the task Aramis had given her.

Time ticked by.

Athos had gathered the eggs and set them in a bowl on the cupboard top.

Porthos was restless in the other room, and they could hear Treville talking to him in a low voice. Every now and again, Athos and Aramis exchanged a look, but neither spoke.

Before too long, d'Artagnan returned. Aramis had directed him to the docks to obtain some turpentine from some of the seamen, who used it for producing varnish. They also mixed it with beeswax to make a protective coating over the ship's oiled wood. Another use was in the treatment for intestinal parasites. Taken internally, it was incredibly dangerous.

Holding up the bottle, d'Artagnan gave them both a grin. Aramis took d'Artagnan into his arms and held him tightly.

"Thank you, my friend. That is one less ingredient to worry about."

"What else do you need?" d'Artagnan asked.

"A substance that the Doctor writes about, but we cannot decipher the name," Aramis answered.

"What is its use?" d'Artagnan asked. He had not been privy to the discussions Aramis and Athos had had over Brother Jerome's papers and the ship's doctor's medical journal.

"It's a potent painkiller. Porthos is in terrible pain. We thought we had found some amongst the ship's samples, but the bottle was empty," Aramis replied, tipping his head toward the small blue bottle that still stood on the top of the cupboard.

d'Artagnan carried his own bottle of turpentine across and placed it next to the blue bottle.

"How is Porthos?" he asked, turning and leaning against the cupboard.

"Deteriorating," Athos muttered, head low over the journal. "We await Madame Crecy. She believes she can obtain oil of rose for us." He looked up and gave d'Artagnan an imperceptible shrug.

"We must do what we can," Aramis said firmly as he walked across to d'Artagnan and picked up the bottle of turpentine.

d'Artagnan's fingers strayed to the blue bottle and he picked it up. Seeing that it was indeed, completely empty, he raised it to his nose as an afterthought and sniffed.

"Smells like our firearm oil," he muttered, before putting it down.

Athos raised his head and stared at d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan shrugged and pushed off the cupboard, sitting in the chair by the table.

"That's it!" Athos suddenly said. "I knew it seemed familiar."

Aramis looked at each of his friends in turn, and then grabbed the bottle. Raising it to his nose his sniffed.

"My God," he whispered. "You are both right! How did I miss this?"

"Because you did not smell it," Athos replied. "Is this information of use?"

Aramis scrubbed his hand through his hair.

"Firearms aside," he replied, "And we do use _several_ oils, but this one is made from Wintergreen berries. I see no reason why it cannot be taken internally, as the Doctor has suggested."

Athos rose slowly and closed the book.

"Then, once Madame returns," he said, "We have everything we need."

"A pain relief and a treatment," Aramis beamed.

He went straight to the armoury and looked at the oils that were stored there for use in maintaining the firearms. Sure enough, one of them was Wintergreen and it had the same smell as the small blue bottle. The plants had been gathered before the last winter and the fermented leaves made into oil for that very purpose. Aramis had preferred linseed oil to maintain his weapons and had forgotten about the Wintergreen. He poured some into a glass bottle and carried it back to the Infirmary.

oOo

Madame Crecy returned within the hour, her cloak wrapped tightly around her. She let herself into the infirmary. Finding Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan there, she took a step back as they all hastily approached her.

"I could not find any," she said, which stopped them in their tracks.

They all looked rather desperate, until she removed a small bunch of roses from beneath her cloak.

"The Good Lord forgive me, but I took these," she said softly.

"From where?" Aramis asked, though he knew the answer, as he had placed them on the altar himself the previous day. He shook his head and relieved her of the flowers, before enveloping her in a hug.

"No matter, I am sure the Lord knows your higher purpose," he said, smiling. "Do you know what to do with them?" he added, frowning now.

"Of course, I do," she replied, rolling up her sleeves. "If you boil up a pan of water, I will show you."

d'Artagnan beat Aramis to it and filled a pan from the pitcher, placing it on the embers of the fire. While he did that, Madame reached over and pulled one of the petals from a large bloom.

"You, Musketeer," she said to Aramis, "Pull all the petals and put them in a bowl and crush them, if you please."

While he was doing this, she had d'Artagnan remove the boiled water and place it on the table. She then asked for olive oil, and it was Athos's turn to head to the kitchen.

When he returned, she stood a cup of olive oil in the pan of hot water.

Then, she put the crushed rose petals with the oil and covered it.

"We need to leave this now until tomorrow. Then, we strain the oil through a mesh cloth."

"That's all?" Aramis asked.

"That's all. It just takes time."

"But now we have the Wintergreen," Athos replied from across the room, "Porthos may be able to hold on."

"Wintergreen?" Madame asked, as she moved the pan across to the window sill to cool.

"According to our records, it is an excellent painkiller," Aramis replied.

"Well, you should be able to apply the ointment this time tomorrow," Madame replied. She looked around at them. They still looked a little despondent.

"You have all done well," she nodded. "He has the best of friends."

oOo

Although Aramis had retrieved the oil from the Armoury, it was another matter to give it as medicine, and to his friend, but Aramis had taken risks for as long as he had been the Garrison's medic. He had often been surprised by some of his successes. He would have preferred to have the plant before him instead of the oil, but he decided to use it cautiously, as a vapour, adding a few drops to boiling water.

Throughout the day, as they had waited for the rose oil, Aramis continued to help Porthos to breathe in the vapours. It had a pleasant smell, and if Porthos recognised it, he did not say anything.

His leg looked terrible, but his pain eased and, with the company of his friends, he spent an uneasy, but more comfortable night.

Early the next day, they all gathered back in the adjacent room while Aramis strained the rose oil and mixed it with egg yolks and a few drops of turpentine.

"The aroma is an acquired taste," Athos muttered as Aramis combined the ingredients, which eventually formed into a firm paste.

"In the past, on the battlefield," Aramis murmured, while he gently stirred, "hot oil was poured into wounds."

d'Artagnan made a startled noise, and Aramis looked up.

"It was terrible. The treatment was often worse than the actual injury."

"Let us hope this works and treatments such as this can be applied in the future," Athos said.

"There is nothing in it that can cause harm though, is there?" d'Artagnan asked, as he watched Aramis pour the lotion into a jar.

Aramis smiled.

"No, I do not believe so. I think we can apply this with a clear conscience."

"And the ship's Doctor used the Wintergreen?" d'Artagnan pressed.

"I have no idea if he did," Aramis replied. "He documented its use but he may have merely been passing on folklore."

"Folklore has it own merits," Athos replied, as Aramis finished.

oOo

When Porthos heard what they had all done to procure the ingredients for the ointment that Aramis now spread on his leg, he looked at them with wide eyes.

"I wondered what you were doin' out there," he growled. "Thought you were avoidin' me."

"We did not want to get your hopes up," Athos replied, with a small smile.

"Or scare you away," Aramis laughed.

"Smells funny," Porthos said, wrinkling his nose.

"All the best medicine does," Athos replied.

"What now?" Porthos said, after Aramis had finished applying the ointment and gently wrapping his leg in a clean bandage.

"We wait," Aramis said.

oOo

"That's amazing," Aramis breathed, the following morning, as they all stood around Porthos's bed.

He had carefully unwrapped Porthos's leg, and not only had the swelling gone down, but the blisters were healing, and the greying skin now looked much healthier.

"We owe this success to two very remarkable men," Treville said, clapping Aramis on the shoulder.

"I owe _them_ ," Porthos agreed, nodding, "A great debt. But I owe you all too. Thought I might lose my leg for a while there. But you all, and Madame Crecy," he said, looking over at the Laundress, who stood to one side, "You saved my life. Cos, I couldn't live if I lost my leg."

The room fell silent at Porthos's words, broken when Aramis coughed against the lump in his throat;

"How is the pain, my friend?" he asked.

"Much better," Porthos replied. "What is that oil?" he asked, as Aramis moved to the table to mix the oil with hot water to create the vapours Porthos had been breathing in.

Aramis glanced at Athos, who looked at d'Artagnan, who looked at Treville. Madame made her excuses and left.

"It's a special recipe," Aramis replied, quickly.

"Very popular in The Americas," Athos added.

"Very "cleansing," d'Artagnan smiled innocently.

Porthos looked suspiciously at them all.

"You're all in this together," he growled.

"Teamwork, my friend," Aramis replied. "Teamwork."

Porthos huffed.

"When can I get up?" he asked, looking expectantly at Aramis.

"Not until you can bear your weight on that leg," Aramis replied, which earned him a scowl.

"Perhaps, if you become bored," Athos added, watching as Aramis poured some oil into the water in the bowl, "We can task you with cleaning some weapons."

oOo

Thanks for reading!

Autumn and Aramis is next

 **A/N:**

The horsefly: Even today, people can be hospitalised as a result of a single bite of a horse fly. In the seventeen century, with the insanitary conditions, I would imagine that their bite could have very serious consequences.

The ointment the boys used was developed by Ambroise Pare (1510-1590), a barber surgeon who served Henry II, Francis II, Charles IX and Henry III. He found that the wounds he had treated with this mixture were healing significantly better than those treated with boiling oil. Turpentine has antiseptic properties. He also introduced the implantation of teeth, artificial limbs, and artificial eyes made of gold and silver. He invented many scientific instruments, including the ligature, which replaced the method of searing vessels with hot irons to check haemorrhaging during amputation.

Gaspard Bauhin (1560-1624) was a Swiss botanist whose _Phytopinax_ (1596) described thousands of plants and classified them.

Wintergreen _(Gaultheria procumbens);_ as well as used for firearm maintenance was used in topical analgesic preparations. Historically it _was_ used by Native Americans, and its properties are now known as aspirin.

* Brother Jerome, Chapter 47, Infirmary Talks

** Sick Bay, Chapter 46, Infirmary Talks

*** The Laundress, Chapter 40, Infirmary Talks


	79. Seasons - 4

Last one of the "Seasons," dear readers. What has Aramis been getting up to?

 **79\. Seasons 4**

 **AUTUMN: Aramis**

"You must have kept very still," Athos said quietly, as they sat in the Infirmary, watching Porthos binding Aramis's ribs.

Aramis had given them a bare outline of his adventure before they had escorted him promptly to the Infirmary. He was indeed, doing an excellent job of sitting very still _now_ , as he perched on the edge of a cot, his back very straight, allowing Porthos to make a good job of it.

"Well, it's not as if I could have taken a deep breath," Aramis grimaced.

"So, come on then, tell us the sorry tale," Porthos grunted.

oOo

 **The previous day:**

The day had started well. Aramis had moved his horse slowly off and then settled in for a leisurely ride. The day before he had taken shelter as sudden strong winds had blown through and made the onward journey back to Paris difficult.

This morning, however, the sun was shining and the leaves were a mixture of red, gold and orange. Indeed, as far as the eye could see, the hillsides looked ablaze with colour.

"It's a beautiful morning," he murmured to his horse as they moved through the countryside.

All was right with the world.

Until two men came out of the forest to his left and ruined his reverie.

One of them had fired his pistol, frightening his own horse, which in turn made Aramis's horse leap to the left and stumble and Aramis found himself falling backwards from his saddle, ending in an untidy heap on the floor of the forest. The air whooshed from his lungs and he felt a pain in his ribs, beneath his arm. Clamping his arm tightly to his side, he struggled to his feet to face the two men. In the meantime, his horse made a swift exit.

 _So much for Musketeer horses_ , he muttered quietly to himself, out of earshot of the two thugs currently moving toward him.

Sighing, he removed his hat and gave them a semblance of a bow, given the pain in his ribs.

"Gentleman," he said, brightly, assessing his two assailants, one of which was holding a pistol on him. "What can I do for you, this fine morning?"

"Quite a lot, I would imagine," the larger of the two growled, flipping his spent pistol so that it resembled a very effective-looking club.

"Well," Aramis replied, "Had you accosted me on my outward journey, you may have struck lucky, but, alas, this is my return journey, and I am unfortunately, low on funds."

The two looked at each other as Aramis replaced his hat and took the opportunity to size them up.

What he said next was based on his assessment that they were not exactly in the best shape, but even so, he surprised himself with his next statement. He could imagine Athos rolling his eyes, Porthos growling and d'Artagnan's eyebrows reaching his hairline.

"Let us make some sport of it," Aramis said, leaning in toward them and given them a winning smile.

The smaller man stopped in his tracks and looked at his fellow thug.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Aramis replied, "You have me at a disadvantage. You can shoot me here and that is the end of it," Aramis replied. "Or you can give me a start and then come after me."

"Go on," the larger one growled.

"If you catch me, fair enough, however, if I get away, you agree to leave it at that. You do not come after me."

"Why would we agree to that?" the man asked. "You are at our mercy, soldier."

Aramis was grateful that he had tied his blue sash beneath his jacket and could not be identified as a Musketeer, merely a lowly soldier.

He reached into his jacket. Slowly.

"Because this is all I have," he said, brightly, shaking his purse. "But you are welcome to search me."

The men looked at each other and shrugged, as Aramis undid the strings of his purse.

"There's his horse," the smaller one said. "That can't be far away."

"Why not?" the other one added. "We get his money and then we kill him."

"If," Aramis said quickly, "you catch me."

Aramis held his breath.

Of course, they could just shoot him where he stood. His horse had gone and they were at the edge of the forest. Just kill him and throw his body in the undergrowth. All Aramis had was a small purse and his powers of persuasion.

Unfortunately, the larger one caught a flash of blue as Aramis held out his purse. His blue sash, tied beneath his jacket.

"You're a Musketeer," he sneered. "We'd get a good price for you."

"I repeat," Aramis, said, resigned to his mistake. " _If_ you catch me."

"We don't have to catch you," the man said. "You're right here."

"So I am," Aramis replied, as he suddenly tipped the contents of his purse on the ground.

There were more coins than the two thugs expected. As they both dropped to their knees and scrambled for the coins, Aramis turned and ran. His arm clamped to his side, he leapt over the undergrowth and into the forest.

oOo

Aramis realised almost as soon as he had taken off that the trees are becoming barer as he made his way further into the forest. The high winds from the previous evening had done its worst and the leaves had been stripped from many of the branches, littering the forest floor with crisp, colourful heaps that crackled when he stepped on them.

There was, he realised, simply nowhere to hide.

With no other options left to him, he kept running, leaping through patches of brambles and undergrowth, his arm clasped to his side, forehead now beaded with perspiration and lines of pain etching his face. At one point, he lost his hat and managed, regretfully, to kick it into the undergrowth as he kept moving.

 _Why had he offered them sport instead of standing his ground?_ he wondered as he looked frantically around for cover, his energy failing him. But they had had him at a disadvantage; One of them had a pistol and his own weapon was not primed. It had been a spur of the moment decision, but he stood by it. In the distance, he could hear them cursing; pushing through the undergrowth behind him. Soon, they would appear in this part of the forest and have a clear view of Aramis's back as he ran.

No-one would know what had happened to him, he suddenly realised and the thought saddened him.

Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan would search for him. His horse may find its way back, but they would have no idea of his route or how he had met his demise. He quickly crossed himself and ran on, crouching low, his breath becoming more painful by the minute.

Suddenly, he lost his footing and landed face down on the ground. Pushing himself painfully up onto his knees, he spat leaves from his mouth and pulled leaves from his hair.

And then, looking about him, he had an idea.

His only hope.

Quickly, he scrambled to his feet and began to gather the leaves from the forest floor and pile them in several areas. The final pile he pushed up against the base of a tree.

Just as one of the men came within clear hearing range, he moved to the base of the tree, were the leaves were piled high, and he lay down on his back, head away from the man's direction. Pulling the knife he kept in his boot he began to cover himself with the leaves. Chest burning, he bit the inside of his cheek and held his breath, hoping he would have enough strength and fortitude for what he had planned.

"He can't have gone much further," one of the thugs said.

"We've got his money, for what its worth, lets go," the other replied.

"No! He's played us. I want his hide!"

"We split up," the first one said. "You circle around to the right. The undergrowth is thick that way. The Musketeer coward will be hiding."

With that, all went quiet.

Entirely covered in leaves, Aramis held the knife in both hands on his chest, not daring to move; his hearing primed.

Time passed and he began to think they had moved past him, when leaves crunched nearby.

Aramis counted the crunching footsteps. Only one man. But he had no idea where the other one was.

The footsteps came closer. The man was obviously frustrated as he began to kick the leaves at his feet aside. Aramis could feel his vision clouding; his shallow breathing was leaving him light-headed. Just as he thought he would pass out, the man kicked once more and connected with his leg.

Aramis put his plan into action; suddenly sitting up, leaves cascading around him and the man leapt back in shock. Before he could react, Aramis had thrown the knife and it had hit its mark.

The man stared at him as he sank to his knees with a groan.

Aramis put his finger to his lips to shush him and the man complied, dying before his face hit the ground.

Now that he was sitting up, Aramis doubted he could stand, and so he did the only thing he could do, he left the thug lying face down after pulling the knife from his chest, and lying back down and covering himself with the leaves again.

When the man's companion found him dead on the forest floor, Aramis would strike again.

That was his plan.

If he could remain conscious.

oOo

"And did your fool plan work?" Porthos muttered as he tied off the bandage around Aramis's cracked ribs.

"It was an excellent plan, given the circumstances!" Aramis replied, indignantly. "And not only did I recover my hat, but I also found my horse."

"Why did you offer them sport?" Athos queried, still contemplating the negative part of Aramis's day.

"Because it was a beautiful day and I was not in the mood to die," Aramis replied, tersely.

"But you knew you'd damaged your ribs?" d'Artagnan added.

"My legs were fine! They served me well," Aramis countered, easing himself up with a grimace.

"And, from what you tell us, we are thankful that Autumn also served you well,"Athos replied.

"I love Autumn," Aramis smiled, glancing over his shoulder and catching Athos's eye.

Athos huffed.

Aramis was quixotic in his appreciation of all things, but in this, Athos contented himself with remaining silent. He would have enough time to rebuff the statement when Aramis was healed and returned to duty and the season he so exalted deteriorated into the colder, bleaker days of winter.

For now, they were all glad that Aramis had returned, battered but alive.

With his hat and his horse, and still bearing several bright Autumn leaves tangled in his hair.

oOo

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! All four seasons are now complete. Thanks to all for continuing to read and review. Much appreciated.

More Talks soon.


	80. If Truth be Told

**A/N:** And so, we reach Chapter 80! I am flabbergasted. My flabber has never been so gasted. This is down to the support I have had from everyone who has taken the time to read and review. I still have a few Talks in me, but 80 is a target I really wanted to reach, so thank you all for the encouragement. This morning, Infirmary Talks has had 84,662 views, which I find amazing. Thank you all.

oOo

 **80\. If Truth Be Told**

 **Athos and Constance:**

"Where's Athos?" Porthos asked, as he sat heavily on the bench. "Still with the Captain?"

"That he is," Aramis replied, pouring two cups of ale as they watched d'Artagnan sparring, occasionally throwing in a helpful comment or two. "Our young friend misses his tuition," he winced, as d'Artagnan landed on his rear.

Athos had been closeted with Treville for some days now, revising and updating their protection strategies and lists of informants. There were maps to be updated, as the King moved his gold reserves between three favoured locations. All information was coded, which added further to the workload. Treville was due to meet with the Cardinal to confirm some, although not all, of the final details. It would not do to let Richelieu into all their private plans.

As it turned out, His Eminence later made a few refinements of his own and had then waved to one of the two guards who stood on either side of the door at the end of the large room he used as an office.

"Wine!" he called, turning to Treville.

"All this is so very tedious, but necessary," he said, folding his robe around him as he sat. The vast room could be cold, even in the summer months.

"True, but His Majesty wishes this annual assessment," Treville agreed.

"Indeed he does," the Cardinal agreed. "Although I sometimes wonder if he tasks us with this as a penance, rather than a necessary duty."

Treville could not help a rueful smile pass his lips as the door opened and the guard brought in some of Richelieu's excellent wine as acknowledgement of a job well done.

After the meeting with Richelieu, Athos was grateful when Treville gave him a simple one-man mission; a chance to clear his head of names, codes and strategies.

"Take your time, Athos," the Captain had said, "There is no rush to return."

Treville, therefore, was unperturbed when two days and then three passed. But when Porthos said there was gossip in the Palace about a Red Guard who had deserted his duty, he was uneasy. Knowing that the punishment meted out to Richelieu's guards often far outweighed the transgression, it had to be something serious for a man to desert. He made discreet enquiries as to the man's last duties and discovered he had been assigned to the Cardinal himself.

"These things happen," the Cardinal had said, when Treville spoke to him about his missing guard. "If he is not dead in a gutter somewhere, he will wish he was when he shows his face."

His callousness confirmed his true feelings. The Cardinal could not bear the thought that Treville's Musketeers may take their duties more seriously than his own guards and he did not stand in the way of further investigations.

With Richelieu's agreement therefore, Treville went to the Red Guard's quartermaster and enquired further.

What he discovered sent a chill through his bones.

The missing Red Guard had been on duty in Richelieu's large office when he and Treville had discussed the final details of their defence arrangements. Treville had given orders that he and Athos were not to be disturbed in the Garrison, but the Cardinal always had internal guards and it seemed he had come to think of them as part of the furniture. And, God help him, Treville had been lax in not calling him out on it.

Now, they each had a missing man.

oOo

It had been three days.

Three days of the same questions.

He had the answers they wanted. He knew where the King's gold was deposited. He knew where their informants and spies were. He knew France's war strategies, or as much as they held on a particular day. And a lot more. But he was damned if he would tell them. If they wanted answers, they would have to work for it.

He had had worse. He could hold on.

After three days, they brought something into the room. A small bottle. They placed it carefully and deliberately on the table in front of him.

They had obviously run out of patience.

He licked his split lip and looked at the bottle through the eye that was still able to open.

For a moment, a brief moment, he thought he could hold on.

Until one of them stood behind him and grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. He gritted his teeth and kept his mouth shut. But one against three was poor odds in such circumstances and the punch to his stomach made him gasp. That was what they wanted and whatever was in the bottle, slid into his mouth.

His jaw was held until he swallowed.

"Now you will tell us, Musketeer," one of them growled, and Athos knew that he would have to draw on _every_ reserve, every ounce of strength to withhold his truths.

With sudden realisation, he realised he was losing focus. These three men would become his only focus, if he allowed it. His head fell forward onto his chest and he pulled in each breath slowly, fighting the fugue that threatened to envelop him. If it did, he would be lost. As would France. It was an ominous feeling.

They began again.

With each question, Athos pulled in a quiet breath and squeezed his hand into a fist. The urge to tell the truth pulsed at the edge of his consciousness. Each time, he drove it back, his fingernails biting into the palm of his hand as he tightened his fist.

They did not seem to notice as they stood over him, pulling up his eyelid, firing their questions again and again.

If he could just hold on. They would come for him.

He pulled away mentally and forced their voices from him. Whatever they had given him was working its way through his veins and he imagined it burning its way to his brain. Another distraction, as he felt nothing of the sort. He felt adrift.

The weight of responsibility to remain silent was heavy. Terrifying even. But he realised that little by little, inch by inch, the need to tell them the truth was becoming stronger. He wondered briefly if he could grab a knife from one of them. He knew they were armed with knives as they had used them on him. Shallow cuts, but with the threat to go deeper. If he could now grab one of their knives, he could end this. They could not prise secrets from a dead man. He could keep his secrets. He would take them to his grave, wherever that would be.

One more question. One of defence. His fist curled once more, the knuckles straining against the skin. The answer was there, fighting its way through the fog that had invaded his brain.

He gave them an answer. It was not the right one, and he knew now that that answer would be his last lie, for he doubted he could resist their questioning much longer.

They must have realised they needed more time for the serum to take full effect, not realising how close he was to falling under its spell. And so they began their beating once more, sure that he would choose to tell them in order to evade their fists.

Suddenly, there was a commotion and the room was filled with bellowing and the clash of steel.

His eyes would not focus and he could hardly lift his head, but he knew the voices.

They had come for him.

He let go and allowed the darkness to claim him.

oOo

They had approached the house with caution, before dawn. Porthos had extracted intelligence that led the three Musketeers to the run-down property on the outskirts of Paris. When threatened by Porthos, most people gave him information willingly. The Red Guard, it seemed, was long gone, but he had sold information gleaned in Treville and Richelieu's meeting to a small gang of thugs, and had given up Athos as part of the deal. The house they sought was a sometime-base for their activities.

Athos had been so close.

At first, it seemed that the house was deserted, until a scurry of rats alerted them to movement above.

They split up, one to each floor and Aramis to the cellar.

There, he found Athos, tied to a chair, quiet, bruised and bloodied.

To the sudden sound of battle upstairs, Aramis crouched down in front of Athos, his hands resting gently on his knees.

Alert to any call from above for help, he began to untie Athos's wrists.

Athos raised his head and gave Aramis the slightest of smiles. It was enough.

"How did they take you?" Aramis asked softly, his eyes carefully assessing him.

"Shot my horse from under me," Athos replied, after a long pause. "I was stunned."

"Not Roger?" Aramis said in alarm, knowing what the horse meant to him.

"No ... Roger was … out of sorts. Took his … stable mate."

"Mistral?" Aramis said softly, noting how Athos was slurring his words.

Athos nodded, as Aramis took the opportunity to run his fingers over Athos's scalp, searching for any damage.

"A terrible waste," Aramis said, sadly. Athos gasped as Aramis found a lump on the back of his head.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"That looks painful," he added gently, tilting his friend's head to look at his lip. He noted the diluted pupils with a slight frown. "What other hurts do you have?"

He was surprised when he was not rebuffed, nor pushed away.

"It is very uncomfortable," Athos murmured, almost immediately, before listing his various injuries.

He looked up to see Aramis staring at him.

"Well, that was very comprehensive," Aramis replied, unnerved by his brother's unusual candour.

"They gave me something," Athos said quietly, so no-one else could hear.

Aramis looked around, his eyes falling on the small bottle on the table in the corner of the room, and a look of pure anger passed over his face.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had pushed the three thugs unceremoniously down the stairs and were corralling them into another room, no doubt giving Aramis time to assess their brother.

"Do you know what?" Aramis asked him urgently, his mind swinging wildly through a myriad of possibilities.

Athos blinked slowly, before he reached up and grabbed Aramis's shirt, tightly.

"Something," Athos bit out, "to loosen my tongue."

His look of anguish made Aramis take in a breath, as Athos stared at the door through which his assailants had passed.

"I do not think I can fight it much longer," Athos said. "I am a danger to France."

Aramis sat back on his heels and blew out a breath.

He squeezed his hands around Athos's knees to let him know he was listening.

"Then we have two choices," he replied. "We either gag them so they cannot ask you any more questions, or we gag you, so you cannot answer."

Athos frowned as if he was actually considering the better of the two options. The last three days had taken their toll but Athos must be feeling very near the edge if he could not recognize that the danger had passed. He was in their care now but Aramis knew they were defenceless against the drug in his system. He wished he knew when he had been given it. It would eventually wear off but he was vulnerable in the meantime and what was more, he knew it.

How he had lasted this long, Aramis did not know, but he was so proud of him.

His eyes burned and his heart ached as he leaned forward and kissed Athos softly on the forehead.

"Rest, while we see to them, "he said, "All will be well. You have my word."

oOo

In the end, Aramis rode the short journey steadily back to the Garrison with Athos, leaving d'Artagnan and Porthos to follow with their three prisoners who were now bruised and bloodied themselves.

Aramis handed Athos quickly into the care of Dr Lemay, who, because of Treville's foresight, was waiting in the Infirmary on that bright, still morning. Constance was also waiting, having been in the Garrison when word came that Athos had been found.

Aramis gave Lemay the bottle he had retrieved from the house, and told him of his suspicions.

Seeing that Athos would be in good hands, Aramis spoke briefly with Treville. He had vengeance on his mind and would have it that day. Then, swinging back into his saddle, he set off back to the Musketeers with Treville's welcomed orders to take the assailants directly to The Chatelet.

oOo

Lemay came out of the small Infirmary room a little while later and gently closed the door.

"I believe Aramis is right," he said to Treville and Constance, who were both waiting for his verdict. "I suspect he _has_ been given a truth serum," he said to Treville.

"That would explain his general demeanour," Treville sighed. Athos had disconcertingly backed away from anyone who came near him in the yard.

"How do you know, Dr Lemay?" Constance could not help but ask. Athos was bruised and battered but the look in his eyes had frightened her. She had suspected perhaps, a head injury, but to hear that he had been given a drug to coerce a truth from him was a shock to her.

"By his very succinct answer to my query as to how he was feeling," Dr Lemay replied. "It was most … enlightening."

Treville smiled. Athos would normally go to great lengths to avoid discussing his personal feelings and emotions.

"The words "I'm fine" did not pass his lips?" Treville ventured.

"Not at all," Lemay said. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

"So he is still vulnerable to interrogation?"

"Yes, your men appear to have rescued him just in time."

"He would not have given up any information," Treville said, firm in his belief.

"Aramis told me they were impatient and had again tried to beat the truth from him. They have the assailants in custody. No doubt we will learn more later, but it seems they got very little from him."

"I am wanted at the Palace soon," Dr Lemay said, turning to Constance. "Can I entrust him to you?" he asked. "I believe he will sleep this drug off and awake eventually with a painful head. I will leave something for that."

Constance looked surprised, and turned to Treville.

"I am sure Athos will be safe in Constance's hands," Treville replied, before turning to her. "If, that is, you can spare the time?"

She smiled, shyly. "Bonaceiux is away on business, so, I am all yours!" she replied.

"Well, all Athos's," Treville replied, as he walked the good doctor out of the Infirmary.

Constance took her place next to Athos.

She had not been this close to Athos since their first acquaintance. They had spoken of course, and one time he had assured her that they weren't going to kill d'Artagnan when she had followed him into the Garrison to find him foolishly locked in battle with the three older Musketeers.

Athos had now sunk into an uneasy sleep. Looking at him, he was in a sorry state. She could not imagine what he had been through in the last few days. His face was bruised, one eye blackened and both wrists were raw from his struggles.

Dr Lemay had applied a salve for his wrists and had left the small pot on the table, and so she took it up, together with a cloth and began to work a little more into the abraded skin.

Unbeknown to her, he was not as deeply asleep as she had assumed, and she found herself under scrutiny when she looked up from her task.

"Oh," she cried softly, sitting back, her heart in her mouth.

He had the same look she had seen on his face when Aramis had guided him in. Guarded.

His eyes were almost black, with just a slither of green showing. She had been by Lemay's side when he had confirmed that Athos had been given a truth serum. She had been shocked, but now, looking at him, she felt another sensation; curiosity. She was horrified at the thought of what it meant.

Of course, she would not take advantage of his vulnerability. He was a friend. Almost. Yet, when she asked him how he was feeling, although he was slow in his reply and those strange eyes never left her, he was quite candid. She had never heard him speak so.

No one had told her not to speak to him and yet, she wondered if the serum was still in his system. It would be best to know, wouldn't it? She was, after all, supposed to be looking after him. What could she ask him so that she could ascertain the truth of his current state?

She asked him a few questions about the Garrison; simple questions that anyone who lived in the vicinity would know the answer to, to which he responded. She asked him the name of the Captain and he hesitated, his fist tightening as he resisted. Treville's name was well know, though, but here was evidence that Athos was defending that knowledge.

She could ask him questions about the Palace. Of course, she knew more than she should, as Bonacieux had attended once with bolts of material for the Queen's ladies in waiting. He had not hesitated to tell her everything he had seen, whether he should have done had never occurred to him.

But she stopped, sure that he was still under the influence of the drug.

She busied herself, straightening the sheets and chattering about the chores she would have to do when she returned home. Yet, all the time, there was a nagging voice in the back of her mind, which she fought, as she worked her way around the room, tidying and wiping down surfaces.

In the end, she could not resist.

She returned to Athos and asked in a quiet voice, that she almost hoped he would not hear, if d'Artagnan had feelings for any particular lady.

It was not a direct question aimed at herself, and she watched Athos anxiously, afraid she had gone too far and he would be angry. But his eyes were closed and he did not react.

She was feeling particularly angry at herself though, for asking. It had been a question too far.

She stood and moved away to stand by the window where she silently berated herself. Lost in thought, her back stiffened when she heard his voice;

"He loves you, very much," Athos murmured behind her.

She turned toward him and saw he was looking at her once more. His eyes were clearer, his voice a little stronger.

"It is the truth," he said quietly, closing his eyes.

"We all do," he added, before falling silent.

He had felt the effects of the serum leave him but it was something he wanted to say. A seed he wanted to plant, tempered with a broader truth that would ease her blushes and stop her protest.

He knew what it felt like to need to know if another felt the same. For a short, glorious moment in time, it had seemed that, in his case, Anne had.

Perhaps it would be different for Constance. He hoped so. Hopefully, the seed he had sown today would remain. He did not need a serum to learn her innermost secret; that she loved d'Artagnan equally.

And, in his heart, he had not betrayed d'Artagnan. It was the truth. It was written on his sleeve, even if Constance had been unable, or unwilling to see it.

It was in the stars now whether they would both find out one day.

oOo

Constance had watched from the window as the Musketeers returned.

She turned at the sound of her name being called behind her. Turning, she saw that Athos had woken once more and now looked worried as he met her gaze. His forehead was creased, and he looked wary, as though he had overstepped the mark.

"Well, you're awake at last," Constance said, suddenly overly bright. "You've been unconscious since they brought you here."

He watched as she bustled around, not meeting his gaze; looking anywhere but into his eyes.

"Though," she added, softly, "You had some powerful dreams. I could not make sense of them."

With those words, she had set him free, honour intact. As he had done for her by his simple admission that she was loved.

As the outer door to the Infirmary opened, Athos and Constance did not break eye contact, their secret held between them. An understanding that it would be held dear, never to be spoken of.

Sometimes, the truth is an ugly thing that can rent and tear worlds apart. Sometimes, it can be simple, but no less cataclysmic. A shared, gentle truth can awake a heart and unfold a future path more surely than a key in a lock.

The room filled with people and Athos finally looked away.

oOo

"Sometimes," Treville said later, when he and Constance were alone in his office, "A man can be told he has been given a truth drug and, even though it is not true, he believes it and it causes turmoil as he has to then decide what answers to give to hold his truth and protect that which he has sworn to protect. The interrogator can usually prise between them and get his answers."

"But Athos _was_ given the drug?"

"Yes," Treville replied, "Aramis brought evidence back and gave it to Dr Lemay. He confirmed it."

"And he withstood it?"

"Apparently. That is, no doubt, why they started on other methods."

Treville wiped his hand briskly over his face. "If anyone could withstand it, he could. He would only give out the truths he wanted to."

"I have asked d'Artagnan to walk you home," he added. "My thanks for your help today."

"It was nothing," she replied, knowing that it was everything.

Spending time with Athos this day, she had seen what duty was and how he fought to uphold it. She had married Bonacieux and it was _her_ duty to be a good wife. But somewhere now, deep within her, there was a spark of something else; the promise of more. Like Athos, she would bear her sense of duty to the best of her ability but it was now not such a heavy mantle, thanks to him.

Treville looked across and saw that Constance was carefully wiping her eyes.

"Are you alright, Madame Bonacieux?"

Just then, d'Artagnan climbed the stairs to walk her home.

"Yes, Captain," she replied, before breaking into a wide smile. "I am better than I have been for quite some time."

oOo

Thanks for reading!

 **A/N** : How many questions did Constance ask Athos before the one she _really_ wanted to know? Oh, the possibilities.


	81. Inevitabilis

Just a short, thoughtful tale of the inevitability that Musketeers often live with

oOo

 **81\. INEVITABILIS**

 **Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan:**

Missions go wrong. It is a fact.

Intelligence that seems sound can crumble to dust when the time comes.

The best plans go awry.

Athos is their strategist.

Porthos too, can cut through the most complicated of situations with a simple suggestion. Obvious, when spoken aloud; the missing piece dropped into place gently, or in exasperation, depending on his frame of mind.

Aramis knows what will work for him. He knows how to protect his brothers.

d'Artagnan can be foolhardy, but he gets away with it and has often saved the day. Though not always with Athos's approval.

Together, they are formidable.

Most of the time, it works. If it doesn't, they usually know why.

They were all at fault this time.

And all paid the price.

Athos's strategy was foiled. There was no back-up plan. Porthos had nothing to add to save the day. It had been a sound strategy, but things change. Aramis could not get a line of shot and d'Artagnan, though reckless, did not achieve what he wanted.

Nobody died. But it was unacceptable.

Another fact. There are always consequences. Some inevitable. Some unseen.

Afterwards, in the quiet of the Infirmary, it is time to reflect. To dissect. To learn from their mistakes.

The scars they will each bear will be a reminder of this day.

Their presence in each other's company is a comfort to each of them as they look into each other's eyes and listen to each other's thoughts and frustrations. There is no time for blame, except to lay it at the feet of the treacherous informant who sought to destroy them.

Another strategy is formed. There is room to manoeuvre now, based on new knowledge. And it has always been an unspoken truth that treacherous informants will, inevitably, face consequences.

Missions do not always go according to plan, but if the four of them can sit together and learn and accept and forgive and reaffirm; if they can join hands in a universal sign of brotherhood, then all is not lost.

Not today, and God willing, not any day soon.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.


	82. The Darkest Hours

Happy Holiday, Hsg!

 **82\. THE DARKEST HOURS**

Aramis had told them that more souls were collected in the small hours than at any other time.

The Reaper was at his most inventive, or at his laziest, whichever point of view you took.

Perhaps those not ready to go would be coerced by the shadows in the room.

Those who _were_ ready perchance wanted it done with before the dawn of a new, tedious day.

Porthos believed it. He had seen how the Court had shed its weakest in the darkest hours of the night. The dawn always brought extra work for the Paris morgues. Yes, Porthos believed it.

That was why he was stationed beside Athos's bed, watching the shadows.

Aramis had stepped from the room. Serge had left him the keys to the kitchen, on the proviso he did not take more than he needed. Hand on heart, Aramis had promised, and Serge had nodded. He did not begrudge whatever Aramis helped himself to, as they were all confined for the night, waiting out the hours, waiting to bring Athos back into the sunlight of a new day.

Athos had saved a child, after all. That was worth some leniency from our Lord, Aramis had said quietly to Serge, who had once more nodded his agreement. Serge too believed in the course of the darkest hours and if he had the power, he would hasten the night on and bring The Inseparables into the light of a new day; their brotherhood still intact.

Treville too, in his candlelit office above them, ruminated on Aramis's words when he had pleaded for them to be allowed to stay with their injured brother. None of them would sleep. He had some evidence of the darkest hours himself after many a battle. The old King, Henry, Louis's father, had died in the early hours of the morning; eventually - but not before he had lingered. He was perhaps not ready to let his nine year old son lose his father. But one cannot argue with The Reaper, and who would want to? What mischief would come of that? What horror if that grim Angel was denied his due?

d'Artagnan believed it, because Aramis had said it. Thinking back, he could name several folk of his acquaintance near their farm in Lupiac who had succumbed during the dark hours. Some expected, some not. Who was _he_ to say it was just superstition?

And what of Athos? What did he believe? Was he ready to prove Aramis right? Time may tell tonight. But if a show of force could hold against it, then they were ready.

Porthos sighed and took hold of Athos's hand. Aramis really needed to get back here soon, he thought, before realising he was actually considering that the shadows in the corner of the room held more than he knew.

oOo

The man was a brute, well known in the neighbourhood as a weak man who drank what little money his household had; his wife and daughter often going hungry because of his vices.

He had taken his daughter up onto the roof, three storeys high. He was a brute of a father too. He had his arm around her neck and a knife at her throat. She was a small child of some six years, thin from lack of food and now, terrified.

His wife was positioned in the small attic that jutted from the roof. She peered anxiously through the window but dare not open it, fearing he would throw the girl from the roof. Her eyes were wide with terror, for Athos had approached along two neighbouring roofs. The Musketeers had a warrant for his arrest but the man was defying the King and using his own daughter to make the Musketeer back away and give him time to escape.

Of course, he did not know Athos.

Athos now stood in front of the man on a flat ledge that rimmed the roof, his back to the street below and his sword unsheathed but held down. The man stood in the small gap that divided the house from the stables next door, the wall of which rose somewhat higher, casting a shadow across the man's face, but not his daughter's.

"Albert Fevre, I am Athos of the King's Musketeers," Athos now said, as he pulled out a parchment from inside his jacket.

"I have a warrant for your arrest, signed by His Majesty, Louis XIII of France."

He unfolded the warrant and read through it calmly to himself, before turning it around and holding it up for Fevre to see.

"Escape is futile Monsieur. We have the building surrounded. I am here to take you for a fair trial. Your daughter is not required," he added, glaring at the man.

The part about the building being surrounded was a slight exaggeration. He and Aramis had climbed the stairs, searching for their man, while Porthos and d'Artagnan stayed in the street, guarding the exits. It was only after a fruitless search of the house and an encounter with his distraught wife that they learned that Fevre was on the roof.

"You are wanted for extortion and murder," Athos continued firmly, his voice reverberating with command. "Release the child and come with me."

As Athos tried to talk some sense into the man, his aristocratic tone had done nothing to appease the man and so, Fevre had edged toward the dilapidated guttering, coming closer to Athos in defiance, rather than away.

The child's feet barely reached her father's knees and she struggled to keep from spiralling in thin air, her hands clasping the thick arm he had clamped around her chest.

In the end, Athos had held up his hand for the man to still, and leant his sword against the rising roof tiles in front of him in appeasement, though it was not entirely out of reach.

Athos relaxed his body now, bending one knee as he slowly replaced the warrant in his jacket and took on a rather bored expression.

"It is useless, he will not surrender," Athos suddenly shouted over his right shoulder, keeping his eyes on the man and child.

"You are losing your touch, my friend," Aramis had laughed, as he loudly threw open the window and leaned out. "Let me try."

Caught off guard by their banter and the sudden appearance of another Musketeer, the man spun to his left.

As Athos had anticipated.

At that exact moment, Athos grabbed the child from the surprised man's grasp and swung her around through the air in a wide arc over the street below, before depositing her neatly on his other side, and into Aramis's outstretched arms. Aramis drew her quickly back into the room and into her mother's sobbing embrace.

Athos though, had left himself open, and the angry man pitched forward, knife still in his hand, pushing it into Athos's back. Momentum carried the brute onward though and as Athos staggered, the man could not halt and he tipped over, falling from the roof with a surprised scream.

Aramis turned in time to hear the man's scream and see Athos stagger, his knees buckling.

Before he could reach him, Athos stepped back, into thin air.

oOo

Porthos had watched from below and saw Athos and the brute facing each other. He did not see Athos swing the child around toward Aramis. Nor did he see Athos fall. But he was ready.

He and d'Artagnan had run to the stable next door and commandeered the wagon that was piled with used straw from the morning's mucking out. It was not fresh, nor soft, but it was all they had and they had led the team of two horses into the street and below the stand-off above.

Porthos stood in front of the horses and put his shoulder to the yoke that held the pair in place, so that they could not move forward. They were steady horses but this was unfamiliar to them and they side-stepped and shuffled until Porthos managed to stay them.

d'Artagnan watched what was happening above and guided Porthos as to whether he needed to move the wagon forward or back.

Suddenly there was a cry from above an a loud bang and the wagon shook as the body hit the straw, but broke on the wooden sides, falling with a heavy thud onto the cobbles to the side of the cart.

Porthos, his head down, all his muscles straining to keep the team in place, could only see the shape of the man on the ground and for a moment he thought it was Athos, until he saw the man's boots.

"Porthos, hold!" d'Artagnan cried. "It's not him. Hold the wagon!"

Seconds later though, the wagon shook again and the horses almost bolted.

d'Artagnan looked up and saw Aramis's horrified face peering over the edge of the roof from the window before he disappeared, no doubt heading for the stairs.

d'Artagnan ran around the side of the wagon and jumped up onto the spokes of the wheel, leaning over into the wagon, where Athos lay, gasping for air.

Aramis barrelled out of the doorway and climbed quickly into the back of the cart, struggling through the packed straw before dropping down to his knees.

"Breathe, Athos!" he cried, as Athos tried to pull in air.

The fall had thoroughly and completely winded him, and he was struggling to pull in any air. Tears were leaking from his eyes as he grasped at Aramis in pain and panic.

"He hit his head!" d'Artagnan shouted, indicating a smear of blood on the wooden boards of the cart.

"One injury at a time," Aramis replied, as he pulled the scarf from Athos's neck and began to open his jacket. "Get in here, and get behind him!" he added.

d'Artagnan climbed quickly into the cart and positioned himself at Athos's head.

"Ease him forward. Gently. We don't know what injuries he has."

d'Artagnan knelt up and gently pushed Athos into a semi-sitting position. At the same time, Aramis bent his legs, taking pressure off his abdomen. After what seemed like a life-time, Athos began to relax and finally, get his breath back.

His fingers were wrapped around Aramis's shirt, and as Aramis took hold of his hand, thinking the worst was over, Athos gasped once more.

" _Back_ ," he whispered.

Aramis did not understand.

"Back," Athos repeated, before saying the word that chilled Aramis to the bone;

"Knife."

They pulled him gently forward and d'Artagnan studied his back. There, between his shoulder blades, the leather was cut. He raised his eyes to look at Aramis and grimaced. Aramis nodded encouragement and d'Artagnan eased his hand up, under his jacket and placed his hand underneath the sliced leather. The breath he pulled in told Aramis all he needed to know. d'Artagnan pulled his hand out and it was streaked with blood.

They both set to and removed his weapons belt and eased his arms from his jacket. Rolling him on to his side, Aramis saw the red stain spreading across his shirt.

"What is it?! Porthos called, as he held the two horses still.

"Porthos, can you drive this cart?" Aramis shouted, by way of answer.

"Sure," Porthos replied cautiously.

In the cart, Porthos heard Athos speak and relaxed a little.

"Fevre?" Athos asked.

"Dead," Aramis replied.

"The girl?"

"Saved."

With a sigh, Athos went limp and started to fall sideways, caught by d'Artagnan, who wrapped his arms tightly around him.

" _Now_ , please, Porthos!" Aramis added tersely, and Porthos's heart sank as he climbed into the seat and took the reins.

oOo

"What the hell _was_ that?!" Porthos yelled as they raced through the streets.

"It was the best we could come up with!" Aramis shouted from the back of the wagon as he pressed Athos's scarf to the wound in his back.

"You planned that?" d'Artagnan said, incredulous.

"Of course," Aramis replied. "Do you think we would go up there without a plan?"

"You under-estimated Fevre," Porthos grunted.

Aramis stared at the back of his head. Porthos was beyond anger.

"We did," Aramis conceded quietly. "Events took a turn."

In the end, circumstances dictated that their purpose was to save the child. What happened to the father was not the primary concern and, truth be told, they all thought he would end up dead; his history of violence was well-known in the neighbourhood. They were prepared for him resisting arrest, but not his method of using his own child to aid him.

oOo

d'Artagnan had followed them into the Infirmary, Athos's jacket clutched to his chest. At some point, he looked down and found he had pushed two fingers through the hole in the back of the jacket, made by the blade. _Constance will fix it_ , he thought, absently, before he was pulled back into the room by the sudden flurry of activity as Athos was laid on the table and divested of his shirt.

He put the jacket reverently on the chair in the corner and thus began the task of carrying and boiling water and getting Aramis what he needed, the image of Athos falling toward him never far from his mind. For a moment back there, he thought he had got it wrong and that Athos would go the way of Fevre, missing the cart completely or being broken on its thick wooden side. His hands shook as he passed Aramis his medical kit.

Porthos reached out and wrapped a large hand around his wrist as he passed by, and that helped to ground him. They shared a look of understanding. Porthos too had had similar, unvoiced fears that he might not be able to keep the team of horses still enough to follow d'Artagnan's instructions. His own images of that morning were very close to d'Artagnan's.

Later, when Athos was bandaged and placed carefully in a cot, other fears began to surface, and a long night stretched ahead of them.

oOo

That had been three days ago and Athos had been senseless ever since. The wound was not deep but the blade, having been retrieved, was filthy. It had taken all Aramis's skill to clean and pack the wound, ready for sewing when he was sure there was no infection.

Now, Athos hovered between the dark hours and the dawn, and they were all scared. Aramis had said more souls were collected in the hours after midnight than at any other time. It was well past midnight and the night was indeed, dark.

"Is he going to die?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis looked up sharply, and part of him wanted to cross the room and shake him. But, seeing the look on his face, he found himself instead, reaching out for him.

"It is not your fault," he said.

"I could have gone up there – worked my way behind him," d'Artagnan said, not meeting his eyes.

"Hindsight is a wonderful skill," Aramis replied quietly, his hand on the side of d'Artagnan's neck as he leant in. "I could have done more, I am sure," Aramis said. "But we all played our part in this. You and Porthos ensured he had a softer landing than the cobbles and Athos himself played Fevre perfectly to the point where he could pull the child away and I was able to grab her. Fevre was driven by fury and drink. He was not used to being defied. He is dead, but I doubt anyone will mourn him. Even his wife looked relieved."

"Will she be alright?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He took most of the household income," Porthos spoke up, "and it was _her_ that worked and brought the money in. So yeah, she'll be alright."

"We just need Athos to return to us, so we can put this behind us," Aramis said.

The day wore on and nothing changed.

As the third night approached, Porthos found himself dreading the loss of daylight. The shadows lengthened and eventually, they closed the shutters. Aramis checked Athos's wound, but it showed no sign of infection, and he would be able to stitch it in the morning. It was his head wound that was causing Aramis concern. Even though Athos had spoken to him in the cart, once his eyelids closed, he had lain still and unresponsive since.

d'Artagnan was pacing; something Porthos usually did, but he had stationed himself at Athos's side.

"It's gettin' dark," he finally muttered, looking at Aramis.

"It's superstition, Porthos," Aramis said quietly, unnerved by the look in Porthos's eyes.

"Is it?" Porthos growled."You better pray Athos recovers then."

Aramis wanted to point out that this was Athos's plan too, but he held his tongue.

For his part, Porthos had seen the child dangled over the edge of the roof above him before Aramis grabbed her. He had been unable to see what had happened to her, his attention taken with steadying the two horses. It was the ill-use of the child rather than anger at his brother's recklessness that irked him, he knew. Recklessness often worked out for them. He was not adverse to a little outburst himself, but it was usually their youngest who threw himself into that pursuit. These two were seasoned soldiers, so if they did reckless, at least there was _some_ thought behind it.

"Fevre was one of a kind," Aramis finally said, unwilling to let the argument go. "There was no accounting for that. Without the child held hostage, Athos would have just skewered him and dragged him downstairs."

As angry as Porthos was, he couldn't hold on to it. Sadness took over. And, God help him, a fear of the dark, so he finally nodded and let it drop.

Aramis was silent then, for those three words that Porthos had uttered, "It's getting dark," had unnerved him too. He was at a loss how to help Athos further, and the approaching night would be another long one.

He wished he had not told them about the darkest hours, though they had not argued; they all had their own experience that seemed to verify his words. Finding he could not bear Porthos's silence, and wanting to give him space, he stood.

"d'Artagnan," he said quietly, "We should bring Athos a change of clothes, he will need them tomorrow when he wakes. You know how he is – he will want to be up and off the moment he wakes."

Unconvinced by Aramis's confidence, d'Artagnan was reluctant to leave but Aramis was adamant. The atmosphere in the room was heavy and when he saw Porthos tighten his hand around Athos's, d'Artagnan nodded his agreement. It would not take long to go to and from Athos's rooms to gather a few of his things. On their way out, they each put a hand on Porthos's shoulder.

oOo

After leaving Athos's rooms, d'Artagnan had taken his jacket to see if Constance could repair it. Truth be told, he needed her company. Just for a short while. So Aramis returned alone an hour later. Arms full of Athos's clothes he hurried down the Infirmary corridor, shifting his load so that he could open the door.

"What's all this?" Aramis gasped, as the sight before him made him stop; hand still on the door handle.

The Infirmary room was awash with candles of all sizes and Porthos, his back to him, was intent on lighting what remained. Aramis had only been gone for an hour and Porthos must have started collecting them the moment he had left.

The effect was stunning; magical almost.

Candles flickered on the window sill, on every surface and, most atmospherically, on the floor around the perimeter of the room and in regimented lines. All shadows had been banished, save for the thin horizontal fluttering shadow curtain around the top of the walls where they met the ceiling. Below that thin shadow, the walls stood in sharp relief, every crease and crack in the plaster illuminated. The room was cast in a warm golden glow and Aramis reached unconsciously for his crucifix as this was truly, a room fit for angels.

Porthos turned, the last candle burning in his hand.

Aramis was transfixed for a moment before realisation struck him. It was confirmed by Porthos's next words;

"I reckon," Porthos said, his voice low and shaking with emotion, "that darkness has something to do with it."

"With what, Brother?" Aramis asked, gently easing the door closed; cautious of not disturbing the candles burning near his feet for he thought that would undo his friend.

"Why they die before dawn," Porthos replied, his eyes having strayed to Athos, his still form equally illuminated by the soft glow. Aramis walked forward and laid a hand on his friend's arm.

"You want to light his way to God?" he ventured.

Porthos though, looked horrified, and took a step back.

"No!" he said, shaking his head, "No, no, no."

And Aramis understood. Porthos had created a room fit for angels, but in his quest to help Athos survive the darkest hours, even The Lord's messengers would be banished, along with all the shadows, as Porthos threw his protective cordon around the room.

Aramis reached up and placed his hand on the side of Porthos's face, his thumb stroking gently beneath his eye, wiping the moisture aside. He took the candle from him and drew him over to the cot, where they both settled onto the chairs they had placed there on the first day.

"I think you may be right," he replied, setting the candle down next to three others that already stood on the bedside table.

"You and I will guide Athos toward the dawn. Let us guard the light and ensure that the night has no place in this room."

And guard it they did.

Treville joined them quietly, closing the door and taking in the scene. Porthos and Aramis were sat at each side of Athos's cot, hands resting gently on his arms, as if to keep him there, though he did not move.

d'Artagnan was quietly moving round the room, ensuring all the candles burned brightly. It had taken his breath away when he had returned from the Bonaceiux's house and he could think of no better way of countering the darkest hours than by the ambience of candlelight. He had taken it upon himself to keep the flames burning.

All was still.

The Cathedral clock struck three.

And Athos moved.

Or, at least, his legs moved restlessly. It was as though he were walking, as he drew each leg up and then down. His hands grasped at the sheets, but worse was his breathing, which was becoming laboured.

Porthos and Aramis instinctively put a hand on each leg to keep him still, but, weak as he was, he struggled to escape.

It seemed to go on forever, as Athos battled some unseen force. Then, as quickly as it had began, it ended, with a long drawn out sigh.

Porthos took a step back, and Treville came forward to stand next to Aramis.

" _Aramis_?" Porthos said, from behind them, his voice wrecked.

Aramis leant over Athos, reaching out to touch his face. He ran his fingers slowly down his cheek.

And Athos opened his eyes.

Aramis snatched his hand away and spun around to look at the others.

Athos followed his gaze and his eyes flicked around the room, and, seemingly satisfied they were all there, and well, he gave them the smallest of smiles. But it lit up the room.

"Did someone die?" he whispered.

There was a long silence, before Porthos spoke.

"I'm gonna kill 'im," he growled, before stepping forward and, at the last minute, haltingly, gently taking his hand.

"Please don't," Athos managed, before falling asleep.

oOo

As dawn broke, Porthos threw open the shutters as Aramis and d'Artagnan gathered up the myriad of candles.

"Does it work with subterfuge?" Athos asked behind them, making them jump.

Porthos spun around and looked at him and shook his head slightly, indicating he did not understand.

"Can false light dispel the forces of darkness?" Athos explained.

Still Porthos did not speak but Aramis replied softly, "You were aware of the candles?"

"I do not know about candles," Athos replied, grimacing as he tried to move. "I saw a dark room with an open door at the end," he said, lost in thought. He shuddered, before looking at them all.

"I seemed compelled to walk toward that open doorway, but I did not know what lay beyond. I remember the cathedral's toll of three bells ..."

"Three of the clock," Aramis said, looking at Porthos. It was then that Athos's breathing had suddenly changed and they had all become alarmed, fearing they were about to lose him.

"It must have been, though I had no way of knowing," Athos replied. "But then, the shadows receded and the room was filled with a wonderful light. I found I could move away from the dark doorway and so, I turned back."

"The light showed you the way," Aramis responded, looking at Porthos.

"It would seem so," Athos concluded. "A strange dream, don't you think?"

No one spoke.

oOo

Some days later, Madame Fevre appeared in the yard with a covered basket, her daughter by her side. Seeing her shyly looking around, Aramis quickly crossed the yard and gave them both a bright smile.

Peering into the basket, he pulled the cloth aside and hummed his delight and the array of baked goods inside.

"It's not much. But I wanted to say thank you. Is the Musketeer alright?" she asked, referring to Athos, who she had last seen being driven at speed out of the street.

"Athos is better. He is recovering in the infirmary, Madame. Would you like to see him?"

At that, Evette, the child, clung to her mother's skirts and hid her face in its folds.

"Thank you Monsieur," Madame Fevre replied, "but no. Evette was … a little frightened by him," she offered, apologetically.

Aramis looked at Treville, who had joined them, and grinned.

"Yes, he can be somewhat intimidating when he wants to be," Treville said ruefully.

"I am so happy to know he is alright," Madame replied. "And Evette knows he saved her. I would not want her to be afraid of our Musketeers," she added, firmly.

"And are you alright, Madame?" Aramis asked, cautiously.

"More than alright," she replied, knowing he would understand what she meant.

Then, she drew aside the cloth at the other end of the basket.

"Evette baked these for him herself," she added proudly, smiling down at her daughter, who returned a shy smile.

Inside was a horde of small biscuits, of irregular size and shape.

"I will ensure Athos gets them," Aramis said, taking the basket from her. "And I will ensure your basket is returned."

"Thank you, Monsieur. Then I can return his sword. I found it on the roof after he ..."

"He will be delighted to have it returned," Aramis replied.

Madame Fevre hesitated, but Evette shook her skirt and gave Aramis a small smile, before looking up at her mother.

Reluctantly, Madame Fevre withdrew a piece of white cloth and unfolded it. Drawn on the cloth in charcoal, was a stick drawing of a man, holding what looked like a sword.

"She took particular care with his face," Madame said, pressing her lips together to avoid giving herself away.

The expression on the drawing's face could only be described as a scowl; eyebrows drawn together and mouth turned down.

"Oh!" Aramis exclaimed, before collecting himself and crouching down to bring his face level with Evette.

He leaned in conspiratorially and Evette looked delighted.

"This is an excellent likeness, Evette," he said, before looking up at her mother.

"I know the exact place to display it, so that we can all enjoy your excellent drawing," he said, risking a look at Treville, who promptly turned his face away.

They wished her and the child well and watched as they both made their way back through the archway.

"They seem to be doing alright," Treville said.

"They do, don't they," Aramis agreed.

"And what "place" would that be?" Treville asked, as Aramis took one last look at the drawing.

Aramis smiled.

"Somewhere where it will give maximum pleasure," Aramis replied.

Treville shook his head.

"And where Athos cannot reach it," he added with a smirk.

"On your head be it," Treville sighed, though as he walked away, he too had a smirk on his face.

"Yes, it probably will be," Aramis said to himself. "But it will be worth it," he added, as he folded up the cloth and took it into the Infirmary where he was sure it would be received with the same expression as the drawing.

Evette really _was_ a very talented child, and who was he to deny sharing that talent with the rest of the Garrison?

It may even amuse the King to see the work of one of his young subjects, he thought, warming to the idea.

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	83. Aftermath

**A/N:** So, I _finally_ managed to wrangle this into shape after _many_ hours. It's a long one …

oOo

 **83\. AFTERMATH**

 **Athos:**

The great bell of Notre Dame tolled …

 _Far away …_ where _was_ he?

He took a breath and fire racked his chest. Opening his eyes, he blinked back resultant tears from the pain, and tried to move, which made it worse. He could move his toes and his legs but his muscles screamed in protest and when he tried to move his arm, the same fire shot up to his shoulder, stealing what little breath he had eased into his lungs.

He was manhandled but had no strength to protest. Water was splashed on his face and in his eyes and he gave in. Let them do their worst.

His arm, though, was raised and then propped on a pillow, which helped. The blue and orange that swirled beneath his eyelids gave him focus and he drifted for a while on a sea of pain and confusion.

There was a wall next to him on his left side. Far from being claustrophobic, it gave comfort and if he had the strength, he would reach out and touch it. As it was, he flexed the fingers of his left hand and felt the smooth sheet beneath him. After a moment, he freed his hand from the sheet that swathed his body and felt cool air on his fingers. Breathing though, continued to be a challenge and he finally found a rhythm of shallow breaths pulled in through his open mouth. His nose was blocked and painful but he could not remember the blow that must have caused it.

He sensed movement to his right but could not move his head. Nor did he have any desire to, for he was not ready, in his vulnerable state, to confront whoever held him.

The blue and orange swathes he had taken comfort in melded into black but he did not fight it.

 _Later_ :

A cool hand touched his and a subtle perfume drifted over him.

The silence unnerved him. He did not open his eyes.

He had questions but could not find his voice. Everything hurt. His head thrummed and his shallow breaths left him light-headed.

Cool water dripped into his mouth. All his concentration was focussed on swallowing each careful drop. If he choked it would kill him for he had no doubt his ribs were broken. After, he felt the pent-up tension leave him. Wherever he was, they did not mean him to die. Not yet, at least.

More hands on him. Hands at his throat, and he tensed. But the cold air told him that a bandage had been opened. His head was also bandaged, it seemed. After a few moments of prodding, they re-bandaged him and let him be.

Now at least his head had been shifted away from the wall and he could see his surroundings a little better, though he was still flat on his back. The novelty soon wore off and he drifted as grey shapes moved about him in the unnerving silence. He took solace in sleep, his various pains finally ebbing away; helped, no doubt, by whatever else they had dripped into his mouth.

Someone was sitting close by. On the next bed, in fact, head in his hands.

He was bandaged too, the white linen stark against his long dark hair. He wanted to reach out but his arm was heavy on the supporting pillow, the skin painfully tight. A shape loomed over him then and he lost focus when he tried to make sense of it.

The shape left him alone though, turning to help the man in the next bed lay down.

 _He dreamt of fire._

 _A sudden swathe of intense heat – a quiet morning ripped apart in noise and chaos._

 _A hard landing amid screams that faded to a dull clamour._

 _His sleeve was burning but he could not move._

 _Hands held him down as he yelled, but he could not hear his own voice._

oOo

The Cathedral bell was much louder now.

How was that possible? Had he been moved while he slept?

Other sounds filtered through too, but he could not understand them.

He finally found his voice, and footsteps hurried to him.

A shape loomed over him and a hand rested on his shoulder.

A dark, worried face.

" _Porthos …? Is it you?"_

Porthos smiled and, if he spoke, Athos did not understand him. So he asked another question;

" _What happened?"_

But Porthos did not reply. Instead, he sat on the bed and after a few moments, he steepled his fingers together and made a ball of his hands. He then blew them away, indicating an explosion.

 _Bomb?_

Porthos nodded solemnly when he read Athos's lips, which formed the words silently.

He then waved his fingers, miming fire, and pointed to Athos's arm, resting, bandaged on the pillow.

Next, he pointed to his own head and feigned a blow, before pointing at him and raising his eyebrows in enquiry.

Athos blinked once, slowly and deliberately in affirmation.

 _Concussion._

Porthos was not finished though. He gently placed his hand on Athos's chest and then brought both hands up and made a snapping motion, as though he were snapping a twig. He then held up two fingers, and waggled his hand.

 _T_ _wo_ _broken ribs. Maybe._

Finally, he pointed to his ear and then twisted his hand to and fro, before mouthing: " _Anything?"_

Athos frowned, and then slowly turned his head from side to side.

 _No, I hear nothing._

The King, Porthos mimed, by way of placing an imaginary crown on his head, smiling, and dusting himself off, was unharmed. He had been pushed aside, according to the mime.

Athos's eyes widened when he took that information in.

 _Aramis. He had been with Aramis ..._ it was he who ran over and slammed into him.

Porthos rested his hand on his shoulder to quieten him and then turned his head to the next bed. Athos managed to follow his gaze, carefully turning his head to look.

The man next to him was quiet. A bandage wrapped around his eyes.

 _It was Aramis._

oOo

 **The King and the Cardinal**

Richelieu stood with his back to the window as the King raved.

It had been close and Louis was, understandably, still in shock. Reluctantly, the Cardinal admitted to himself, that without the action of those two Musketeers he may well be organising a State Funeral. Treville would be insufferable. Although, give him his due, he had been the one to take charge, in the aftermath.

This was a complete and monumental transgression though. A would-be assassin had infiltrated the King's employ and had had the opportunity to not only plant a bomb, but to ignite it. Heads would roll, quite literally.

But first, the man had to be apprehended. The King was at this moment demanding it.

"Look at me, Cardinal!" he cried. "Pushed to the ground by my own guards!"

The King was dishevelled, his clothes dusty, hands grazed from his sudden journey to earth.

"To be fair, Sire," Richelieu responded, "The action saved your life."

Much as he hated to admit it, the swift action had taken everyone by surprise. The two Musketeers had surpassed themselves. They had, in an instant, formed an effective wall which had protected the King's person from serious harm.

The Musketeer Aramis's loud yell of warning had saved others, and on-one had died.

In the melee of the aftermath, the only serious injuries were to the two Musketeers themselves, who were blown into the air, away from His Majesty, and himself, as it happened.

"My clothes are ruined!" Louis was still in full flow. "The day was ruined!"

There would be no talking to him this day. This was not about Louis's clothes.

The King was terrified.

oOo

 **Aramis**

They both had a hand a pushing the King to his knees, although it was Aramis who initiated it.

Each of them were stationed at the four corners of the tented canopy, erected in the grounds of the palace, where Louis would shoot selected birds before they left for a more extensive hunting trip. The Musketeers all had a good view of the grounds, although several tall trees gave the area a sheltered appearance. Louis liked blasting the birds from the trees though, to give him practise for the main event, much to the Queen's dislike. She had not joined them yet, though several of the King's Council and a smattering of dignitaries had started to arrive.

A long table was set in front of the canopy and a large contingent of servants busied themselves bringing food and wine from the carts that trundled to and fro from the palace, visible in the distance through the early morning mist.

"Good morning, Cardinal," the King had crowed, as Richelieu arrived, black cape gathered around him as if to ward off the North Wind, rather than a summer breeze.

"Majesty," Richelieu said, inclining his head by way of reverence. He shared the Queen's distaste for the King's obsession for early morning shooting forays, but at least they had not been required to mount up and ride into one of the many forests Louis favoured. That was a daunting exercise in logistics and security which always gave him a headache.

Aramis was within smirking distance of Athos, to his left, though Athos was keeping his eyes firmly in his own allocated area this morning, hat pulled low against the rising sun. It was going to be hot and none of them relished the long hours ahead. Porthos stood ahead of Athos, back to him, as he scanned the swathes of lawn, shrubs and trees from his own corner. If Aramis turned to his right, d'Artagnan's post covered the rest of the area.

All seemed in order.

It was hard to understand later how the assailant, posing as a servant, had managed not only to organise his plan, but to set it in motion; with devastating consequences.

oOo

Someone put a hand on his shoulder and Aramis jerked violently, reaching for his weapon, but he was not in uniform, so no defence was to hand. The world was white though, and the firm hand guided him down. In the end, he went gladly, having no strength for anything else. And anyway, his head throbbed and his face felt raw.

On his back, he reached up to his eyes but his fingers brushed a soft cloth before they were gently pulled away. No-one spoke to him. Or, if they did, he did not hear properly;

" _Leave … be … second … again"_

It made no sense. Recognising his hurts, he closed his eyes beneath the bandage and tried to sleep.

" _Leave_ it _be_. That's the _second_ time I've put you back to bed. Don't do it _again_ ," Porthos had muttered, happy when his friend finally complied.

Lemay had put the bandage over Aramis's eyes as a precaution, though his face had been scorched and he had lost most of his eyebrow. It seemed he had been deafened, like Athos, and with the bandage and hearing loss, Porthos thought he probably didn't know who sat with him. Just as well, as he couldn't stay. He had work to do, finding the assailant, and d'Artagnan was up to his eyes in staffing rotas.

If it helped find the scum who did this though, he was happy to leave his friends in Lemay's care for a little while.

He would be back though, to make sure that care was the best it could be.

oOo

 **Treville and the Cardinal**

"This is intolerable," the Cardinal fumed, as he paced around his apartment, cape billowing behind him."

He had just come from the chaos, and his brief exchange with the King.

Untying his cape, he threw it over a chair and retreated behind his desk.

"A close call," Treville growled, pulling out a chair without invitation and collapsing into it.

"What news do you have? Richelieu began.

Treville rubbed a hand over his face.

"Porthos and d'Artagnan are looking into it."

Richelieu huffed, an incredulous look on his face.

"The King was almost assassinated!" he fumed. "I trust you will do more than look into it!"

"I trust the Red Guard will also be deployed," Treville countered, tersely.

"Well, yes, that goes without saying," the Cardinal waved his hand. "They are out on the streets, seeking out dissenters."

"Have there been any rumours?"

"Nothing, of late. I had hoped that such tantrums were a thing of the past," Richelieu muttered.

It was Treville's turn to look incredulous at the Cardinal's choice of words, but he held his tongue. Words spoken in haste at such times could not be taken back.

"How is His Majesty?" he asked.

"Well, let us just say, his mood is dark," Richelieu replied. As an afterthought, he added, "The Queen would like news on your men, _if_ you have time in your busy schedule."

Treville grimaced. Despite the Cardinal's own lack of concern for his men, his own faith in the Queen's compassion was always justified.

"My men are being treated in the Palace infirmary," Treville said, through gritted teeth.

Richelieu waved a hand, dismissively.

"Well, I am sure they will receive excellent care. It costs an exorbitant amount to run," he said.

Treville bit his tongue and turned abruptly. He could not endure another moment in the man's company.

"I would be more than happy to escort the Queen to their side," he said, as he strode toward the door.

Richelieu looked up sharply. For a moment, Treville thought His Eminence would raise an argument, but the Queen had been insistent that morning when they were safely back in the building.

"Very well, I will inform Her Majesty," he murmured, his attention drawn to his desk, Treville effectively dismissed.

oOo

 **Aramis**

Unlike Athos, Aramis knew he was running into the path of a bomb.

His priority was to protect the King and as such, he had time to shout a warning to him, but not to Athos, who he butted shoulders with to form a protective shield.

So, when he regained his senses, he knew what had happened. There was no confusion, as there had been for Athos; just pain.

He had landed badly, on his shoulder, which he realised, before everything went black, had been knocked out of its socket. Now, sightless, he reached up and felt nimbly around the joint. Back in place. Just incredibly sore.

Other pain seeped in then, and his hand reached up to his face, feeling linen wrapped around his eyes. It was not dark though, just hazy, and he relaxed a little. His sight may be damaged, but it had not been lost completely. He worried then about Athos and pulled himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. No-one stopped him, but his head swam and the pain in his shoulder flared into his neck. He sat still and dropped his head into his hands.

Someone pushed him down then. They did not speak, or if they did, he did not understand the distant, garbled words. Damaged sight and hearing then. A high price to pay but it paled into insignificance when he thought that maybe he had pulled Athos to his death; caught in a blast he had not expected and could not prepare for.

What had he done?

oOo

 **The Queen and The Captain**

"How is his Majesty?" Treville asked as he walked with the Queen toward the Palace infirmary.

"He has locked himself in his rooms," she confided quietly. "Complaining that his clothes are ruined."

Treville's jaw tightened. Two of his best men lay in the royal infirmary, having saved this Sovereign, and all Louis could do was complain about the state of his dress. The Queen, however, had shown more compassion and had asked to be escorted to see Athos and Aramis.

"I have never known a band of men so loyal, Captain," she said. "They did their duty today and I am grateful for it."

They passed by several infirmary staff who scurried out of their way.

"What news of the would-be assassin," she whispered, casting him a worried look.

"Porthos and d'Artagnan are trying to determine who was on duty at the time."

"A daunting task," The Queen murmured as they walked on.

The Infirmary was quite a grand building.

The long room they now entered, though narrow, was light, mainly due to several tall windows along one side. Beneath the windows there were a dozen beds arranged along the wall. There was a door at the end and another along the wall opposite the windows.

Sunlight cast long shafts of light across the width of the room. There were other rooms that served the sick and injured palace staff but this was the one they had been escorted to and it was at the far end of this room that Athos and Aramis had been consigned. Otherwise, only two other beds were occupied, at the entrance. The Queen paused briefly as they passed those patients, before continuing to the end of the room.

The Queen stepped closer to Athos so that she could say a few words to him. It was not a conversation, as Athos was unconscious. A brief prayer, Treville thought, stepping back to give her privacy.

Before straightening, she laid her hand over his.

"Do they have family, Captain?" she asked, over her shoulder.

Treville stepped forward.

"No, Majesty."

The Queen turned to face him.

"The Musketeers are a family in themselves," she said softly, before giving him a gracious smile.

"They are, Your Majesty," he answered, gruffly, taken aback by her perception, his mouth suddenly dry.

He cleared his throat and looked around, suddenly affected by the stillness that had descended.

"We will transport them back to our Infirmary as soon as possible," he said, for want of something to say, needing to break the silence.

"Nonsense, Captain," the Queen replied. "They will stay here and receive the best of care. I am The Queen and that is my decision."

Treville bowed as she walked past him to Aramis's side.

"His eyes?" she asked, quietly.

"A precaution, Your Majesty," Dr Lemay said, hurrying toward them.

"He will recover?" she asked as the doctor hovered.

"We are rinsing his eyes with a weak solution of aloe vera and boracic acid," he replied.

"A known remedy?" she asked, a small frown on her brow as she looked down on the sleeping marksman.

"My own," he replied, shyly.

"Splendid," she said. "His Majesty and I have every faith in you, Dr Lemay. You come to us with excellent references," she added, turning her gaze on him.

Flustered, Lemay bowed and stepped back.

Treville allowed himself a small smile as she swept past on her way out.

"Has His Majesty visited?" he asked the doctor, quietly.

"No," Lemay replied, not meeting his eyes.

oOo

 **The explosion**

 **Aramis**

Aramis's attention had been taken by a brazier being lit. A butcher carried a tray piled high with roasted meat into the tent and placed it on a table.

There was a flurry of activity in and around the tent.

Another brazier was lit near the entrance of the tent, where the King and the Cardinal were in conversation.

Aramis looked to his right where d'Artagnan was keeping watch. When he looked back, he caught sight of another flame, though this one did not belong to the brazier.

It was under the table, which was odd.

It burned brightly, fizzing along a line that protruded from one of the many crates now stacked under the table in front of the tent.

Everything slowed down, as Aramis reached up and threw his hat to one side, his feet automatically launching him into the short run to the King. Pushing several people out of his way, he butted shoulders with Athos, who had seen him coming toward him and instinctively turned to also run to the King.

They butted shoulders, both turning and pushing the King away.

Aramis was aware of Athos beside him, reaching for him as the air was rent with a flash of light and a thundering noise as the shattered table was blown away. They were both blown into the air, Athos was pulled away from his grip. Aramis was briefly aware too that he had been propelled violently backward, heat searing his face before darkness enveloped him.

 **Athos**

The earth pulsed beneath him and fell away.

The world was awash with red and white hot strips that seared his skin.

His ears bore witness to the second of Hell he endured.

He twisted away, born on the blast, hearing the rent of metal and then, nothing.

He did not remember hitting the ground.

oOo

 **Doctor Lemay**

Dr Lemay was not the only physician on duty that morning. He was glad of it.

The Infirmary always had patients. The palace had a huge retinue of staff and there were always accidents, illnesses, deaths, even births, that occurred as people lived out their lives in the splendour of The Louvre.

When the King was in residence, preparations were always made for the Infirmary to be staffed, especially on those days when he hunted and rode one of his many horses.

No-one expected a bomb would explode on this quiet morning.

It was not a large one, and Treville had confided that he thought it may have been a practise run. But it had caused mayhem and injury.

Now, Lemay felt the responsibility of treating Treville's two best men weighing heavily on him, for he was the one that Treville sought out for information.

For hope.

When they had first been brought in, Treville striding ahead and barking at him, he had found himself running through his knowledge of impact injuries in his mind. Broken bone, burns, concussion. Add flying debris into the mix and he would be sorely tested this day. Rolling up his sleeves, he began to delegate and then he drew Treville aside and assured him he would do his best.

Reluctantly, Treville had stepped back. This was not his domain. It was Lemay's.

And so, with the doctor's promise, Treville reluctantly turned and went to find Porthos and d'Artagnan and assign them the unenviable task of sifting through the morning's chaos and finding the perpetrator who may have just destroyed the cream of his regiment.

After which, he would have to seek out the Cardinal.

When Lemay was satisfied that his instructions were being carried out, he turned to his two patients.

Athos's forearm was black.

It was the result of the sleeve of his leather jacket smouldering from the blast. No doubt he had protected his face and eyes with his arm, as, apart from a bloody nose, he had avoided injury there. His throat and neck though, were peppered with debris, and Lemay's assistant, a earnest young man, was busy washing any dirt from the cuts. Lemay had felt around his patient's nose but it was, thankfully, not broken.

Lemay tasked himself with peeling scraps of molten leather from the arm, gratified that the burn was not deep to the bone, though it would no doubt pain Athos in the weeks to come. His fingers were intact, thankfully, in light of his known prowess with the sword.

Lemay finished and after washing the damaged skin, he lathered it in a mix of honey and lavender before bandaging it and laying the arm on a pillow for support and to keep it away from his body, as Athos also had damaged ribs; two at least broken, which accounted for his shallow breathing.

Athos shifted and groaned as Lemay laid his hands on his ribcage once more. A thin bandage held a pad of linen in place on the side of his head. Peeling the pad back, he saw that the wound was still oozing blood, though it had slowed considerably since they had brought the two Musketeers into the Palace infirmary.

"We will keep him asleep for a day or two until his body settles," Lemay murmured to the young man opposite him, who dutifully passed the prepared sleeping draught to the doctor.

"His ribs?" his assistant asked.

Lemay frowned.

"Watch him for an hour. When he is deeply asleep, we will bind them."

He dropped several drops of the liquid into Athos's mouth and pulled the sheet up before turning in his chair to Aramis, his next patient.

oOo

 **Porthos and d'Artagnan**

d'Artgnan ran his finger down the page of the quartermaster's book.

The page indicated the rota for the Red Guard.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but they had to eliminate who they could.

There were a lot of people to consider; guards, servants, courtiers, stable hands, gardeners - the list was endless. Their first port of call had been the Red Guard.

"I don't know what I'm looking for!" he said in exasperation.

He was angry and frustrated that they were confined here while Athos and Aramis fought for their lives. Treville had been adamant though, that they both served the regiment best by looking for the perpetrator. Truth be told, Treville needed to assure the King and the Cardinal that he was doing everything he could to bring the would-be assassin to justice and if that meant every one of his Musketeers scouring every Palace record, then so be it.

The image of the aftermath of this morning's incident was vivid in d'Artagnan's mind. The air had been filled with acrid smoke and debris. People were scattering. The King was cowering, on his knees; the Cardinal stood over him, shocked and ineffectively attempting to shield his Monarch with his cloak. Suddenly, Treville was there, helping Louis to his feet and moving him and the Cardinal away, back toward the Palace, amid panicking servants. Food and wine littered the ground. The tent had been partially pulled down, mainly by people falling backward, away from the source of the explosion. And then, Treville had turned, calling Porthos and d'Artagnan to him.

And that's when they saw Athos and Aramis.

 _Broken and dead on the ground_.

Until Treville said they lived.

"We need to know about any new employees," Porthos offered, bringing him back with a jolt. "In all walks of Palace life."

d'Artagnan closed the book.

"That's another set of records," he said, with a weary sigh.

"Best get on with it then," Porthos grunted.

oOo

 **Dreams**

 _Athos dreams of fire, and sees much more in those dreams than he did in reality._

 _Borne into the air by the then-unknown force, he looks down and sees Aramis, ablaze, running toward him, but never reaching him; clothes and hair alight, eyes gone._

 _The King, falling away, to die on the ground, beneath a hug black crow that throws its wings over him so that he is lost from sight._

 _Porthos and d'Artagnan, in view now, running but also being consumed by fire until he can see them no more as his body twists and he lands on his back, the air slammed from his lungs to feed the fire that consumes him now._

 _He screams himself awake, hearing nothing, but feeling everything._

Later, he would try to explain his dreams to Aramis, who must rise frequently from his bed as he is there beside him in daylight and darkness. But it is too distressing. He does not find his voice and it does not end well. There is some comfort in it, but Athos only settles when Porthos and d'Artagnan appear at his side, reassuringly whole and well.

Athos remembers Porthos's mime then is assured the dream is not reality.

This silent world he now inhabits is reality.

The pain is reality.

But they are alive. As is the King, he knows now.

His ribs are bound tightly, his arm throbs and his head splits in two when he moves but his hand is held firmly and there is a welcome pressure on his foot from another comforting hand. He breathes a little easier as a third hand cups the side of his face.

Whatever happens now, he is not alone.

oOo

 **Aramis and The Captain**

A firm hand on his shoulder wakes him.

It has happened before and he knows now that it is Treville. Two quick squeezes signal that his Captain is by his side once more.

This time, the signal is accompanied by the familiar voice. He can hear! Not clearly, but well enough to know that Lemay is there too. They are going to remove the bandage. He nods his understanding, his throat suddenly too dry to speak.

Deft fingers release the linen, but he has to be told to open his eyes; not ready … not ready.

The face he sees when he does open his eyes is the most welcome, though the gaze is stern, the frown deep. After a dramatic pause Aramis releases his Captain from his obvious anxiety.

"When did you acquire those grey hairs, Captain?" he whispers, his voice barely there but those eyes twinkling.

Treville looks away and shakes his head, before swinging a now-fierce glare back at him.

"The day you fools walked into the Garrison," he growls.

Treville's face softens as Aramis smiles that bright smile of his; the only sunshine in several dark days.

He moves aside then as Lemay takes over, though Aramis manages to snag his Captain's arm.

"Athos?" he says, anxiously, the fog lifting now.

"The King is saved," Treville gently admonishes, before relenting;

"Athos too," he adds, nodding toward the next bed. "God willing," he says, before reaching down to pat his shoulder.

"Do as you are asked, Aramis. Do not let me hear you are a bad patient."

Distracted, Aramis nods, his eyes now on the next bed.

Treville left the Infirmary knowing his marksman would make the good doctor earn every sous of his salary.

On his own later, Aramis lays with his head turned to the left, looking at Athos, lying still in the next bed. His eyes scan the length of him, taking in the bandages, before falling to his bound chest, watching the shallow rise and fall as he breathes.

He watches for a long time, lost in his own thoughts of flames and destruction.

And thankfulness.

oOo

"Athos …?"

" _Athos!"_

More urgently.

Athos blinked. The palace infirmary. He was familiar with it now.

Aramis came into focus above him.

"You fell into a deep sleep. I could not wake you. I thought …"

His voice trailed off, only to return with a note of urgency;

"You can hear me?"

Aramis was looking at him with a mixture of concern and surprise.

Athos blinked again, his eyes on his dear friend; an anchor against the sterile white walls, the shapes that slid silently by, the hands that manhandled him. Seeing for the first time the burn on his forehead, that had taken half his eyebrow. Remembering the bandage around his eyes.

"You can see me?" Athos whispered, finding his voice; remembering his inability to take a deep breath.

"I asked first," Aramis replied, unsure as to whether Athos had heard his question or was simply reacting to a new presence in front of him.

Athos frowned as Aramis waited.

"What was the question?" Athos asked.

Aramis opened his mouth to repeat himself, before seeing the small smile playing at the corner of his friend's lips. Sighing with relief, Aramis dipped his head and touched his forehead gently to Athos's shoulder. In response, Athos reached over and dropped his hand onto Aramis's head.

"Can we get out of here?" Athos asked quietly.

"No. By order of The Queen," Aramis replied, to which Athos gave an unrepeatable response.

 _Later_ :

"I'm sorry, Athos," Aramis said.

Athos had been staring at the ceiling.

"For what?" he replied, eyes closed, not turning his head, which was throbbing nicely.

"I could have handled it alone. I did not have to draw you into it."

Athos huffed.

"I was drawn in the moment you started to run."

"A human shield was not my intention," Aramis continued.

"It was very effective," Athos said, as if they were discussing the weather.

He turned his head then and they locked eyes.

"Whoever did this failed," Athos said firmly. "France still has her King. In no small part down to your keen eyes. I will hear no more of this sort of talk from you," he added, turning to look at the ceiling once more.

"The Queen came to see us, apparently," Aramis said brightly, changing the subject slightly.

"We didn't disgrace ourselves, according to Treville."

Athos did not reply. A brief memory of a familiar perfume and a cool hand on his stirred.

"For two unconscious men," Aramis added.

oOo

 **Athos and Aramis**

Worn down by Athos's demands to return to the Garrison, Aramis sought out Dr Lemay in his office. Without preamble, he asked for favours to keep Athos in his bed; in particular, a private room.

"I will arrange for a stretcher," Lemay finally conceded after hearing Aramis's tale that Athos would use all methods fair and foul to escape the infirmary ("nice as it is"); indeed, the palace itself, actually throwing in for good measure, the Queen's wrath, if he came to harm. Unused to the "subtlety" of Aramis's arguments, Lemay had felt himself backed into a corner.

"No stretcher, this is a journey he must make on his own," Aramis declared.

A short while later, the two wounded men made the journey from the main room to the doors half way down the building. Aramis, arm in a sling; Athos, very soon leaning into him, his own bandanged arm held against his chest.

"You've made your point," Athos ground out as Aramis helped him inch his way down onto the cot in the small room assigned to them.

A few moments later, Lemay appeared with a bottle of wine, though the thought of it appeared to turn Athos's stomach.

"I should have known you had more than one point to make," Athos growled.

Aramis took the offered wine with a knowing smile to Lemay.

"Our thanks, doctor," he said. "We'll save it for later. Perhaps a little pain relief would be in order?"

They both fared better in the private room though and were able to talk freely, especially when Porthos and d'Artagnan arrived to update them. Treville too, was more willing to discuss progress and his frustration with the Cardinal, who had vetoed his request to speak to the King, who was still ensconced in his rooms.

It was during one of these discussions that a servant brought a request that the Cardinal wished to speak to the Captain.

 **The Cardinal and Treville**

"You sent for me," Treville said, without preamble as he entered the Cardinal's apartment for the second time in three days.

"I have information," Richelieu began, picking up a parchment and waving Treville to a chair.

"Good, because I have none," Treville grunted.

"Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places, or, speaking to the wrong people," Richelieu said. Treville did not rise to the bait.

"What information has your network of spies turned up?" he said, satisfied with the intimation that Richelieu's dark work extended well beyond his own.

"Minister Joubert," Richelieu said, passing the parchment across, "has today reported an interesting encounter with one of the servants."

Treville took the parchment and ran his eyes over it.

"A butcher?" he said, frowning at the script.

"Indeed. The man was in the tent at the time, tending to the meat. He left suddenly."

"That's not surprising, in the circumstances," Treville sighed.

"Minister Joubert overheard what he said before he practically ran from the tent."

Treville waited, but when Richelieu did not continue, he leant over the desk toward him.

"And what, exactly, did he say?" he ground out.

The Cardinal looked triumphant.

"A good morning's work."

"I'll get my men to look into it," Treville said, folding the parchment.

"See that you do so quickly, Captain," the Cardinal said. "This man cannot be allowed to escape."

oOo

 **The Captain and his men**

"I have come from The Cardinal," Treville said, without preamble, as he strode into the room were his injured men were recovering and his uninjured men were looking despondent.

He waved the parchment, before passing it to Porthos.

"What's this?" d'Artagnan said, moving closer to Porthos, who held the parchment toward him, so that he could read over his shoulder.

"A witness has come forward," Treville announced.

"Who?" Athos said, propped against a mound of pillows and looking a little better.

"Minister Martin Joubert," Treville replied, rubbing his hand over his face.

"Joubert of The King's Council?" Aramis said, reaching out for the parchment.

"One of them, yes," Treville replied.

"Taken 'im long enough," Porthos grunted, as he passed the page to Aramis.

"He was in the tent, that morning. He suffered a fall, apparently. He has only just got his wits about him," Treville replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down heavily.

The last few days had taken their toll as he moved between Cardinal and, finally, the King, defending his men from both, whilst assuring them he was doing all in his power. He had begun to think the assailant had disappeared until this morning when the Cardinal had called him to his rooms and handed him a lifeline. It came with a barbed sting, but Treville could take that, given a lead that he could now put his two restless men onto. God knew they had spent enough time trawling through the records of employees and visitors who had graced the King's presence on that fateful morning and speaking to as many as humanly possible.

"Find this butcher, Mordant, and bring him to the Palace for questioning," Treville said, tersely.

"We're on it," Porthos said, jumping to his feet and buckling on his weapons belt.

d'Artagnan beat him to the door.

"Be careful," Treville called after them. "The man has no time for the Crown, according to Richelieu's spies. He has spoken out against Louis on several matters. He may put up a fight."

"He can try," Porthos growled, pulling his jacket down and straightening his shoulders. He was an impressive sight.

" _I_ wouldn't fight you," Athos murmured from across the room, which elicited a smirk from Aramis.

Aramis poured his Captain a glass of Lemay's wine as they watched their two comrades head out of the door.

 **The Butcher**

Henri Mordant had a grudge. All his neighbours were aware of it, as Henri was not afraid to voice his grievances anywhere he had an audience. A butcher by trade, he had four hungry mouths to feed and taxes to pay. King Louis XIII was fond of putting taxes up and he had done that for the second time this year.

As much as he disliked the King's blithe indifference to his subjects, when a job came up at The Louvre, he took it. Better to be in the kitchens of a splendid palace than try to run his business from the run down building he could barely afford to keep. He was also curious about the workings of the Palace.

On the morning of the explosion he had been working in the tent.

During the aftermath, he slipped away and did not return to his post.

Before they left, d'Artagnan checked the servants rotas for that morning, and sure enough, Mordant's name was there. He had had access to the kitchens and to the carts that brought the meat from the ovens. An easy place to hide a bomb. Porthos worked out from his age as they mounted their horses. He had been a young man when the old King was assassinated. It was time to speak to him.

As it turned out, it was an easy arrest as they pulled Mordant away from his home in full view of his neighbours after first speaking to some of them. In view of the Musketeers attendance, the chatter was that he had finally taken revenge. As Mordant was led away, protesting loudly but not resisting, his wife quietly closed the door on their neighbour's jeering.

oOo

 **A few days later:**

In a tavern not far away, two men met.

"Were you seen?" the heavily-accented man asked, as he leant out of the shadows.

"No. It all went according to plan. It was the damn Musketeers," he spat. "But for them, Louis would be dead and his Spanish widow would be taking the throne of France."

"You must have known the Musketeers would be vigilant," the first man replied sarcastically.

"A temporary setback," the man replied. "But I have good news."

"What possible news could you have that would improve the situation?!" the Spaniard spat.

"One of the servants was arrested this morning."

"Who?" the man asked.

"You won't know him. He was a butcher. Worked in the kitchen. He had a known grudge against Louis."

The man raised his glass.

"Good. That _is_ good news, Minister Joubert. We wouldn't want them to suspect one of the King's own council of attempted assassination. You live to fight another day. We shall put this down to an inconvenience. This time. We shall be in touch, Signor."

This served his purpose well. Having an important court insider in his debt, as Joubert was, was worth its weight in gold and he would not sacrifice that connection at the first step of their fledgling partnership.

Joubert let out a breath. He had been at a loss as to how to report his failure to this man. Luckily, when he had thought back to that morning's events, an opportunity had arisen and he had seized it, and embellished it.

"Then, if that is all, I will go back to the Palace," he replied, relief evident. "I believe a meeting of the Security Council is to be called later."

"Make sure the cordon you throw around your King is not too wide, Joubert," the Spaniard said, as he drew his cloak around him and swept passed.

Joubert nodded and tossed back the last of his wine, the knot in his stomach easing.

He made his way back to the Palace with a spring in his step. Lucky for him the butcher had quit after the explosion. It seemed he did have a reputation for speaking his mind, often against The Crown. Innocent of this particular act, and even though he did not utter the words that Joubert had reported to the Cardinal, he really had incriminated himself amongst his neighbours. They would be quick to speak against him and would probably not miss him. The Musketeers had no reason to think that they had arrested an innocent man.

Now, he had a Council Meeting to attend and he could not afford to be late. There were plans to be made and he wanted to be there to influence them.

 **End.**

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	84. Aftermath - Part Two

This continues on from the last chapter ..

 **84**. **AFTERMATH (2)**

"Hold still."

"I _am_ holding still."

"Apologies, Athos. It must be me."

Aramis continued to smooth Lemay's concoction of honey and lavender onto the burns on Athos's forearm and his throat. His mind was a little easier now that the skin had settled and showed signs that it may heal well.

Now that he thought about it, Athos had remained perfectly still, despite the obvious discomfort. Putting the pot of salve on the nearby table, he realised that his hands were in fact affected by a tremor. Rolling down his sleeves he took a deep breath and turned back to his friend.

"Your hands are shaking," Athos said quietly.

Aramis frowned and was about to challenge Athos's observation, but, catching the steady look that Athos levelled at him, he relented.

"Six days cooped up here, Athos, it's no wonder," he replied, running his hand over his face and through his beard.

"Tomorrow," Athos said.

Treville had finally given them word that they were to return to the Garrison in the morning. The Queen had relented, having insisted on them recovering fully from the blast they had both endured following an attempted assassination attempt on the King. Treville had reassured her that his facilities at the Garrison were sufficient to ensure their continued treatment. Not that either of them would remain there for that to happen, he thought to himself.

"If anyone tells you that a dislocated shoulder, when forced violently back into its socket, does not ache like the very Devil, don't believe them," Aramis groaned, rubbing his shoulder and dropping into a nearby chair.

"I'll take your word for it," Athos replied, grimacing as he swung his legs over the side of the cot. "How are your eyes?"

Aramis did not respond immediately, but his hand reached up unconsciously to rub the tender skin beneath what was left of his left eyebrow.

"Aramis ..." Athos said, firmly.

"Still a little blurred," Aramis replied lightly.

"But improving?" Athos persisted.

"How are your ribs?" Aramis responded, ducking the question, which did not go unnoticed, though Athos did not pursue it.

"Improving," he replied flatly.

Aramis suppressed a smile. "Touché," he responded.

A silent understanding passed between them. They both wished to put the last week behind them. Both had suffered concussion and injuries that precluded their return to duty. Treville had insisted that they respect the Queen's wishes that they remain in the Palace Infirmary until such time as they could return to the Garrison. Her Majesty had wanted to ensure they received the best treatment and had been somewhat unhappy that the King had not visited them.

They had shared the room they now inhabited for the last two days, having moved from the larger room where they had been for four days. The move was in part to avoid Athos attempting to leave the moment he could stand on his two feet. Truth be told, neither looked forward to the journey back to the Garrison, short as it was. Athos had two broken ribs and it would be weeks before they were fully healed and he could wield a sword once more. Aramis had landed badly when the bomb had exploded, propelling them both into the air and, as he had alluded to, his shoulder would remain painful for some weeks.

Over the last day, having become increasingly frustrated at being confined, their talk had turned to the incident that had brought them to their current accommodation.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had kept them informed of the investigation and the subsequent arrest and imprisonment of Henri Mordant, a butcher who had worked in the Palace. He had been reported to Cardinal Richelieu by Minister Martin Joubert, who had recalled an exchange between the butcher and himself which had implicated the man in the attempt on the King's life. His subsequent arrest had been supported by his immediate neighbours who were quick to condemn him for his adverse views on the Monarchy. The fact that Richelieu's spies had rewarded them for their information had no doubt loosened their tongues.

"It doesn't make sense," Athos said now, picking up a conversation that had begun during the night when they both could not sleep.

"Mordant has been very vocal about the Monarchy," Aramis pointed out. "But, so have we, at times," Aramis added, though on catching Athos's glare, he cleared his throat and added, "Though in private."

"It is still treason," Athos responded, his voice low, despite there being no-one else in the building. "Perhaps, therein, lies the fault. Frustrations breed contempt. Though in this case, I confess I am troubled."

"What do you mean?" Aramis asked.

Athos looked around.

"Athos, you can speak freely here."

"Do you not think it strange that this man's name was brought before the Cardinal some time after the fact?"

Aramis ran his hand through his hair.

"Well, people remember things ..." he responded weakly.

"Convenient conversation, you mean?" Athos said, wincing as he moved his arm too quickly and pain flared across his chest.

"Damn," he whispered, gritting his teeth.

"Careful," Aramis murmured, though he knew better than to move to his side. Athos did not appreciate concern where it was no longer needed.

"Did Porthos and d'Artagnan ... speak to his wife?" Athos asked now, as he regulated his breathing.

"There was a jeering mob outside her door," Aramis huffed. "I doubt it."

"Then," Athos replied. "Perhaps they should."

oOo

"Minister Joubert!" Louis cried, straightening as his minister entered the throne room and bowed. "What say you?"

The Council had been sitting all morning, discussing security arrangements following the breech that had seen the King and, indeed, the Cardinal escape injury by a hair's breadth.

"All is well, Sire," Joubert simpered. "I have personally overseen our protocols and I can assure you such an occurrence will not happen again."

The King brightened. He had been in low spirits since the incident, seeing assassins in every corner. He had remained in his rooms ever since, only venturing out to sit on his throne and hear the petitions from hand-picked subjects, who had been thoroughly vetted and searched by a contingent of Treville's men. He had grown used to seen The Inseparables though, and these unknown Musketeers gave rise to more suspicions until the Queen had assured him that Treville knew his business and his men were the best of soldiers who would lay down their lives for them.

She had taken the opportunity to once more suggest that Louis visit the two Musketeers who had almost succeeded in that oath and had been in the royal infirmary since that dreadful morning.

He had waved her off with vague assurances, but this morning it was Richelieu who took up her cause, coming to stand next to Minister Joubert, whilst aware that Treville and his Musketeers were still in the room.

"Sire, Captain Treville informs us that his two men are being moved back to their Garrison tomorrow. Perhaps it would be expedient that you pay a private visit to acknowledge our thanks for your survival." His Eminence bowed as he finished, and Treville could only wonder what his interest was in his request. It could only be two things. To curry favour with The Queen or to dispel the unease that ran through the guard that the King had shown little interest in the two Musketeer's bravery. A throw-away angry comment by Treville the previous evening must have hit home, it seemed. Dissension in the ranks was not something Richelieu relished, for he disliked not being in control. It did not bode well for his Red Guard and Treville's Musketeers to be in agreement on such a sensitive issue. It would be a small matter for the King to show himself and reassure the two men that he was in good health.

"Your Majesty," Joubert interjected, seeing that the King was looking doubtful, "I would be happy to accompany you. I will make the necessary arrangements to ensure the infirmary building is empty. No one will be aware, or see your visit, if you so wish."

Louis huffed. He had grown used to the small world he had built around himself in the last week and was loathe to traipse across the grounds to the Infirmary building, and even more disgruntled at entering a building full of sick people. Joubert's suggestion of ensuring other infirmary residents were moved out suited him though, and after a quick glance at the Cardinal and catching Treville's frown, he finally agreed.

"Very well," he sighed. "I seem I am in the minority here. Make the arrangements, Joubert. It will, if nothing else, stop the daily harassment from the Queen, who has not let up on the matter."

He waved them away as he rose from his throne. Stepping heavily down from the dais, he walked quickly from the room.

oOo

Madame Mordant opened the door warily.

Seeing the two Musketeers, she attempted to close the door but was no threat to Porthos, who eased it back without effort.

The two soldiers filled her small parlour and she fearfully backed away from them. Three small faces peered from an open doorway, leading to the only other room on the lower floor.

d'Artagnan held up his hands;

"Madame, we mean you no harm," he said, gently, aware that they all looked hungry as well as frightened.

"We'd just like a word," Porthos added. "About your husband."

"He's in The Chatelet," she said, flatly. "You know that. You arrested him."

"Sit down, Madame Mordant," Porthos replied, his tone softer now. "Let's talk, yeah?"

Sighing, she shooed the children into the room and closed the door.

A short while later, as they left, Porthos and d'Artagnan both dropped a few coins unseen on the small table beside the door. They would all eat tonight, at least.

oOo

"You want to kill the King in his own Palace? In the Louvre? It is madness!" the Spaniard hissed, at a hastily arranged meeting later that day.

They stood in the shadows of an underground cellar.

They had been careful to vary their meeting places, and this one was beneath an abandoned warehouse. It was decidedly cold and damp and Joubert pulled his cloak around himself disdainfully.

"The palace is the _only_ place," Joubert insisted. "He rarely leaves these days. Even to hunt."

"Whose fault is that, Minister?!"

"The Musketeers, Athos and Aramis!" Joubert raged. "This is an opportunity to be rid of the King and those two."

"Be careful of personal vendettas, Minister. Any guard would have done what those two did. I would execute any of my men who did not show such duty."

Joubert clamped his jaw shut. He did not wish to overstep his hand. He did, indeed, have a personal vendetta. The two Musketeers had ruined his plan. His man had planted the bomb and escaped cleanly, but in the last moment, the King had been protected by two of Treville's blue-cloaks. For a while, he had struggled to see a way out of it, as Treville mounted a thorough investigation. It was only a matter of time before his man was found and under torture, would give him up. Then the idea had come to him to feign injury and conveniently "remember" the butcher. He had watched the butcher from a safe distance, piling meat on the wagon and taking it into the tent. Taking little note of the rest of his surroundings in the adrenaline fuelled moments before the bomb would explode, this man remained in his mind. A convenient scapegoat.

The Spaniard had fallen silent as he considered Joubert.

"What do you suggest, Senor?" he finally said.

"The Queen has spoken of her request that the King visit them during their recovery. He has yet to do so, but even Richelieu thinks it would be expedient. Morale suffers due to his Majesty's perceived lack of concern. These men are required to lay down their lives for Louis. All they see is petulance from him."

"And their injuries?"

"They will not be able to protect him," Joubert responded. "Despite their injuries, they have no weapons."

The man nodded, but still did not speak.

Joubert grew impatient.

"It must be tonight," he said, urgently. "Treville wants them back in their Garrison and the Queen has agreed. They leave tomorrow."

"You seem most concerned to destroy those two, Minister," the man replied.

"All of them," Joubert hissed. "I want all of them dead."

"How will you explain the death of the King and the two Musketeers?"

Joubert relaxed.

"The assassin returns, to complete his mission," Joubert smiled. "The Musketeers will be seen to have arrested the wrong man. The people are fickle. They will blame the Musketeer regiment and Treville will be disgraced."

"Now you want to take down the whole Musketeer regiment," the Spaniard muttered, but turned away before Joubert could defend his strategy further.

The Spaniard finally nodded. "It would serve my purpose," he said. "We only need to deploy one man."

"No gunfire," Joubert replied. "The guards would be alerted."

"Agreed."

"I will escort the King myself," Joubert said. "I trust your man is expendable," he added. "There will need to be an assassin's corpse found with them."

"Be careful, Joubert," the Spaniard said, menacingly. "My men are honourable. They fight for Spain and as such, they are held in high regard."

Joubert took a step back.

"Of course. I used the word unwisely. My apologies," he murmured, tilting his head in deference.

oOo

"What's going on?" Athos asked, from his place propped up on his bed.

He had been watching Aramis, who was standing at their door, looking into the main room.

"They are removing the two patients at the end of the room," Aramis murmured.

"What do you mean, "removing?" Athos replied, his interest piqued.

Aramis turned and returned to his side.

"Carrying them out," Aramis replied with a shrug, though Athos could see he was troubled. Those two patients had been quite sick. Aramis had asked for regular updates from Lemay and as far as he knew, they were not fit enough to leave.

Just then Lemay walked into the room.

"Everyone better?" Aramis asked brightly, as Lemay closed the door.

"No, not really," he frowned, coming across the stand close by. "They are clearing the building."

"Why?" Athos asked, frowning.

"Apparently," Lemay said, carefully, "The King will be paying you a visit."

Aramis looked at Athos, who sighed.

"Just what we need," Athos murmured.

"Apparently," Lemay added, "I am also required elsewhere. Along with the other staff."

"My," Aramis replied, glancing at Athos. "The King really is jumpy."

"He's coming alone?" Athos asked Lemay.

"No," Lemay replied. "One of his Ministers is escorting him.

"When?" Aramis asked, thinking they should straighten up the room.

"I do not know. I have not been told. Although ..."

"What is it?" Athos asked, seeing the doctor hesitate.

"We have all been sworn to secrecy. The request was such that I believe the consequences would be dire if word were to get out."

Aramis and Athos exchanged a look of confusion.

oOo

"It's very quiet," Aramis said, a little later.

"That is because there is only the two of us here," Athos countered, patiently.

Aramis started to pace.

"It's hardly of consequence if the King visits us now," he said. "We are leaving tomorrow. I think the time is past to give us him thanks."

"I doubt that is what he wants to do," Athos replied.

"What then?" Aramis said.

"It's political," Athos replied, a small smile on his face. "You know that."

Aramis sighed.

"We are just pawns in a larger game, aren't we," he said.

"Quite so," Athos murmured, picking up his book.

"So, we know he's coming but we don't know when," Aramis grunted, not wanting to give up his discourse, but seeing Athos's attention was now with his book, he went back to the door, opening it a little and peering out.

"What are you doing?" Athos sighed, dropping his book into his lap.

"Forewarned is forearmed," Aramis replied, not taking his eyes from his vantage point.

Food had been brought to the room before everyone departed, and as the day drew to a close, Aramis picked up the empty tray in order to place it outside the door.

"Athos," Aramis whispered, from his place at the door, tray held in one hand.

Athos, however, made no response.

" _Athos!"_ Aramis whispered, loudly. "We have a visitor."

Athos sighed and put his book down once more. "The King?" he asked moving the blanket from across his legs and making an attempt to rise.

Aramis looked quickly back at him.

"No, not unless he has developed a desired to dress as an assassin ..." Aramis murmured darkly, as he peered back through the small opening as he held onto the door handle.

"What?" Athos said, pulling himself up on the bed post, his arm clamped to his side.

"At least one," Aramis continued to whisper, looking around at Athos.

"And we are weaponless," Athos replied, flatly, eyeing the tray in Aramis's hand. Bread and cheese had not required implements.

"And alone," Aramis added, quickly placing it quietly on the floor.

"And injured," Athos responded, wiping at the sheen that had already appeared on his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "And in a building we do not know. Do you know the layout?"

Aramis had ventured from the room a few times to replenish ale and talk to Dr Lemay, but he was only acquainted with the doctor's office, through the double doors halfway along the wall in the adjoining main room. From what he remembered, there was another small door in there, but he had no idea where it led.

"Only that it resembles a rabbit warren," he muttered, annoyed that he had let his guard down in respect of reconnaissance.

"And the King is due," Athos reminded him.

"On a private visit," Aramis added. "So no guards."

He closed the door quietly and faced his friend. "Well, I think we've covered everything."

"We have had worse odds," Athos said, reaching for his jacket. The weight of it sent a bolt of pain up his arm, through the burns on his forearm, and across his damaged ribs.

"Have we?" Aramis asked, taking the jacket from him and helping him on with it, his own arm held carefully at his side. Between them they had two good arms, he thought.

"We need to draw whoever is out there away from here," Athos reasoned, ignoring his friend's enquiry. "We are the reason the King is coming; he is here to see us. We cannot be here."

Aramis sighed. "I thought you were going to say that," he said, rubbing absently at the rough skin where half his eyebrow had been singed away in the blast.

However, he was brought swiftly back to the present with Athos's next words.

"We need to split up."

"I thought you were going to say that too," Aramis said.

Aramis went back to the door and carefully opened it enough to see down the room.

"How many do you see?" Athos said, coming up behind him.

"I only saw one. I think he's backtracked. There may be others."

"Perhaps not," Athos replied. "They would have to get through the main guards."

"Security has been somewhat lacking of late," Aramis reminded him, as they shared a look.

"That's the only way out," he added, peering at the doors at the end of the Infirmary's main room, now empty and in semi-darkness. The King had requested an evening meeting apparently.

"What about through there?" Athos asked, his eyes on the double doors halfway down the wall.

"Lemay's office," Aramis whispered.

"Nothing else?"

"Well, there is another door in there. It's small, beside the bookcase."

"But there may be something in there we can use as weapons?" Athos continued, thoughtfully.

"Like?" Aramis whispered.

"You should know," Athos replied. "Knives? Scissors? Metal objects of indefinable use?"

Aramis smiled despite their dire predicament and looked fondly at him.

Athos shrugged, painfully.

"I'm sure we can find a use for the most obscure instrument," Aramis replied.

"Very well," Athos replied. "You go ahead, I'll stay here."

"What?!" Aramis said, turning around and gripping Athos by his shirt.

Athos gave him a steady stare, all humour gone now.

"It makes sense," he said. "We agreed to split up."

"We did no such thing!" Aramis spluttered. "You suggested it. I don't recall agreeing!"

"I will slow you down," Athos replied. "Better to distract them. They may think the King is already with us."

"I forbid it," Aramis said in indignation. "It's a sacrifice."

"It's a sound strategy," Athos countered, stepping away. "And it is all we have."

In the quiet of the room, they stared at each other.

"The King may come at any moment," Athos reminded his brother. "We are Musketeers. Our duty is to protect him."

Aramis looked away. He knew he had lost the argument the moment Athos issued the word "duty." Nothing would shift Athos from his stance.

After a fruitless search of the room, there was nothing that could even remotely be used as a weapon. If the King did arrive, they were ensuring he would be as defenceless at they were. So, after a few more charged moments, Aramis finally nodded.

Athos held out his hand.

Aramis stared at it for a few moments but did not move.

" _Aramis_ ," Athos said, softly. "Go."

Aramis finally gripped his hand and then reluctantly turned, striding softly to the door.

Opening it a crack, he turned and they exchanged a final look.

And then, Aramis was gone.

Athos caught the door before it closed and watched Aramis's back as he retreated stealthily toward Lemay's door. Aramis looked back once, before opening it and slipping through; closing the door softly behind him.

Before Athos had time to consider a strategy of his own, however, the door at the end of the Infirmary opened, a shaft of light fell across the floor and a dark figure stealthily entered the room. Whoever Aramis had seen had returned.

Athos once more looked around futilely for a weapon, and when he turned back, the room was empty. But the door leading to Lemay's office was now ajar.

" _Damn it to Hell_ ," Athos cursed under his breath.

There was nothing else left to him now. Aramis was defenceless with less than his usual perfect eyesight, plus a damaged arm. Silently pulling the door wider, and with no thought to his own injuries, he made his way into the room and toward the door where Aramis had disappeared.

oOo

When he entered what he presumed was Lemay's office, it was empty. He soon saw the small door Aramis had told him about, next to the bookcase. It was smaller than a man's height and he hoped it was not a mere cupboard where he would find Aramis's body.

Holding onto the door frame and fighting off a wave of white hot pain that seared his rib cage, he moved into the room as quietly as he could. He had hoped to find a weapon of some sort but he was disappointed. There were only large tomes on the desk, which he doubted he would be able to lift, never mind wield against a healthy assailant.

He made his way around the desk and put his back to the wall. Leaning over as far as he could, he opened the small door and waited.

Nothing happened.

Pulling the door wider, he peered inside.

A small, narrow stone staircase led down into the gloom. Nothing more.

There was nowhere to go but down.

And obviously, Aramis and an assassin had gone down before him.

It was eerily quiet.

If the King arrived now, Athos would hear him, for he would be shouting indignantly for his Musketeers and threatening all kind of consequences for their absence.

With such thoughts swirling around his head, he decided to cross that bridge when he came to it. There were more pressing concerns to consider right now. He had a set of steps to negotiate and hoped that descending would be easier than ascending as he could barely now take more than a shallow breath of air and his burned arm was throbbing, as he flexed his hand into a fist in agitation, wishing he had his sword.

The stairs twisted several times as he made his way down, his good hand grasping the worn, anchored rope that followed the line of the stairs. Around each turn, a small torch of rushes burned, casting some light but also dropping embers, which he did his best to avoid. He reached the bottom and emerged into a dimly-lit vaulted corridor. He was deeply underground and had no doubt that what lay before him was a labyrinth of corridors and passages.

Rush lights glowed in sconces at intervals along this corridor too, casting pools of shadow between. Doors were evident further along.

Athos strained his ears, but all was silent.

Reaching up, he withdrew one of the torches from its holder and held it before him. Luckily, there were nothing behind him, but a stone wall. He had only one way to go. But so did Aramis and the assassin.

Athos took hope in the fact that although Aramis's eyes may still be causing him problems, his hearing was still sound. He dare not call out though, lest he warn their would-be assailant, and so he crept on, occasionally dropping his hand so that the light did not travel too far along the corridor.

Coming to the first door, a small wooden structure, studded with iron, he took hold of the handle ring and pulled. It was locked. Good news at least, he could discount it. On his left, he came upon a passage. Leaning carefully into it, he saw that it was the equivalent of the one he was in. What on earth was this place?

All was still quiet as he moved quickly to the other side of this new passage and pressed himself to the wall.

Sweat was now rolling down his back, despite the cold air that emanated from what he now saw were numerous passages ahead of him.

A noise up ahead made him stiffen and he held his breath.

At the same time, a noise behind him made him turn quickly, which nearly sent him to his knees.

Aramis was quickly at his side.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I thought you did not want me to stay behind," Athos replied, drily. "Now you don't want me here?"

"I have changed my mind," Aramis said. "You can stay. But we are like rats in a trap down here."

"If we are," Athos whispered, "Then so is the assailant."

Ahead, they suddenly saw the figure of the black clad assassin, knife glinting in the low light.

There was no need to be quiet any longer and they both shouted at once, before taking off, Aramis ahead and Athos following.

As quickly as they had seen the man however, he was gone.

"Have you wondered who lit these lights?" Athos said as they stood shoulder to shoulder, having followed a passageway, only to emerge back where they started.

"I hadn't," Aramis replied, "But now you mention it ..."

With that, all hell broke loose.

The assassin was suddenly behind them, spewing Spanish at them, a sword and a dagger in each hand.

"That's hardly fair," Aramis said, turning and looking back at Athos, who shrugged, his eyes now levelled on the man in front of them;

"Can we hurry this along?" he murmured. "This is all very tedious."

"As you wish," Aramis replied, stepping forward.

Athos pulled one of the lights from the sconce next to then and tossed it to Aramis.

Aramis caught it neatly with his good hand and began to wield it like a sword, pushing the assailant back in the roar of flames as the air caught the torch.

Athos took the opportunity to lean on the wall, his own torch held up so that it afforded Aramis more light.

Despite their levity, both were aware of the danger and were deadly intent on putting their assailant down.

The assassin suddenly lunged, his sword swiping the torch from Aramis's hand and catching his bicep with a flick of his blade.

Aramis hissed and raked what was left of the rushes across the man's hand before slipping gracefully behind him, pushing the man backward toward Athos.

Athos took the advantage and delivered a sharp punch to the man's kidney. The man dropped his sword and staggered a few paces, disappearing down a nearby passage.

Athos spun and held on to the wall, as black inky spots invaded his sight.

Aramis gripped his bicep, before rushing over to Athos, who was now standing with his forehead against the wall, breathing as best he could.

"Alright?"

"Hmmm" Athos replied. "After him."

Aramis however, gripped him around the waist and moved him away from the wall.

"I'm not leaving you," he grunted.

Reaching down, he picked up the assailant's sword. The man still had his dagger.

"You take the left and I'll take the right," Athos grunted, through gritted teeth. "Let's get this finished."

oOo

Seeing the stone staircase ahead, Athos realised they had ended up where they had started.

The only door nearby was the original one that had been locked.

Now though, it was ajar. Aramis had disappeared up ahead, and so he opened the door cautiously and stepped through.

Breathing hard, he was in time to see the assailant struck and crumple to the floor at his feet.

Lemay looked up, a pestle in one hand and a mortar in the other.

"A particular hot spice," Lemay said quietly. "I believe it may aid the circulation." He looked at the heavy stone pestle in his right hand that he had used to hit the man over the head and at the unconscious man on the floor, whose face appeared to be covered with an oily film, courtesy of the now-empty bowl in his other hand.

"Perhaps not in this case," Athos said.

Athos blinked back sweat from his eyes, as he swayed in the doorway.

"Perhaps not," Lemay smiled in agreement.

Just then, Aramis burst in behind him, only just managing to stop himself colliding with Athos.

Taking Lemay in and the man on the floor, he propped Athos against the wall and bent down.

"Alive," he announced, looking up at Lemay. "Care to explain?"

Lemay set the pestle and mortar down.

"It's a particularly hot spice," Athos said, from behind him.

"Not that," Aramis replied. "This place."

"It's my sanctuary," Lemay replied. "I am not disturbed down here. Usually," he added.

Aramis looked around. The table was littering with papers. Shelves held bottles and jars. It was a small but orderly laboratory.

"When they locked down the Infirmary, I took the opportunity to return to my research. But it wasn't as quiet as I hoped. I thought you may need a little assistance, so I unlocked my door. There are items down here that can be used as weapons, though he took me a little by surprise."

Aramis clapped him on the back.

"Well, we are very grateful. Though you may have to start your experiment again."

"We'd better go," Athos said, pushing off the wall.

Aramis waved off Lemay's enquiry as to his bicep and took Athos's weight as the three stepped into the corridor.

Only to be met by Minister Joubert, pistol in hand.

He aimed it at Athos.

oOo

"Where is the King?" Athos said, arm clasped to his chest.

Joubert sneered.

"Apparently, he changed his mind."

"That'll be us," the familiar voice came from the shadows behind him.

Porthos came forward, pistol levelled at Joubert's head. He looked at Athos and Aramis.

"d'Artagnan's guardin' His Majesty," he growled, before looking at Joubert. "Seems you can't trust anyone these days."

"Give up Joubert,"Athos said. "You've failed. Even if you get out of here, which is looking unlikely, your pay masters won't let you live."

Joubert hesitated.

"Perhaps," he said, "Perhaps not."

He pulled a second pistol and aimed it at Aramis.

"Insurance," he said, waving the second pistol to emphasise his point.

"I kill the assassin," he continued, "who has threatened the King. Hero. Unfortunately, I am too late to save his two heroic Musketeers."

"Your plan has failed, Minister," Athos repeated, his voice low with barely held anger.

"And you're forgettin' the Musketeer behind you," Porthos growled. "And the good doctor. You gonna kill us all?"

It was a stand-off.

"I agree, things have changed somewhat," Joubert said, his eyes hardening. "But I will take two of you with me," he shouted, raising both weapons and aiming at Athos and Aramis.

A number of things happened.

In the adjoining room, the assassin started to scream as he woke to the burning oil in his eyes.

Joubert fired both pistols at the same time.

Porthos fired his weapon.

oOo

When the smoke cleared …

Joubert was dead.

Aramis and Lemay rose from a crouched position.

Athos was sitting with his back to the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, head down.

For a moment Aramis feared the worst, until Athos raised his head.

"Will someone stop that man screaming," he growled. "My head has had quite enough today."

Behind them, Porthos laughed, as Lemay hurried into his room to tend to the screaming assassin.

Aramis held out his hand and Athos reached up and took it, as Porthos leaned in from the other side, getting Athos neatly to his feet.

"The King ain't gonna like this," Porthos said, looking at Joubert's remains.

"The breach in security by the man in charge of security?" Aramis asked as he dusted himself and Athos off.

"That, an' the mess I've made of his Infirmary," Porthos grunted, before grinning.

"Don't step in it," he added, as they all made their way outside.

oOo

 **The Garrison**

Happily back at their usual table in the yard, The Inseparables were trying to do justice to the large amount of food that Serge had piled in front of them. The table fairly groaned with it.

"Hopefully Mordant has learned to keep his views to himself," Aramis said, on the news received that morning that the butcher had been released from The Chatelet.

"An' he can now concentrate on keepin' his family fed, instead of spoutin' off," Porthos added with a glower.

"The King was in buoyant mood this morning," d'Artagnan chipped in, picking up an apple and rubbing it on his sleeve. "He has convinced himself that with Joubert's death, the threat is gone."

Porthos huffed;

"Well, 'e may be right."

"As long as there is royalty, there will be threats," Athos said. "His own father is a case in point."

"Well, I for one prefer Louis in blissful ignorance. It makes our job easier," Aramis said, brightly, as he poured ale.

"Blissful or wilful ignorance?" Athos countered.

"As long as 'e has no immediate plans for a hunting trip, I can live with either. A few quiet days wouldn't go amiss," Porthos growled.

"Indeed." Athos agreed, watching in amusement as Porthos snagged several slices of beef and rammed them into his mouth.

oOo

 **Epilogue:**

"What is it?" Athos asked as he picked up the paper Treville passed across his desk.

Athos stood before Treville's desk, head bent as he read the document in his hands.

"It is a Commission, signed by the King," Treville replied, drumming his fingers on his desk.

"Yes, I can see that," Athos murmured, finally looking up, eyebrow raised and an unspoken question on his lips.

"Look at the signature, Athos. It is a father's signature."

"Joubert," Athos said. "A common enough name."

Treville passed him another document. It was a record of one of the King's Council Meetings.

"Now look at that signature. Compare," he said.

"Very similar," Athos replied. "Especially the "J's," - though not the same."

Looking up they shared a look.

"Richard Joubert offered and I accepted, his son into the King's Musketeers," Treville replied quietly, gesturing to the document of commission. "I have made enquiries. Richard and Martin Joubert were brothers. Before Martin became a Minister."

"From a very good family, nevertheless," he added. "My enquiries also show that Richard died by his own hand just before Martin became a Minister."

"I am still a little at a loss as to what this means," Athos frowned.

"The son, Phillipe Joubert, died in our care," Treville replied, gently.

He saw the moment Athos put it all together, and waved him to a chair.

oOo

Bernier, the man who had killed Philippe Joubert had been a lost soul, brought to the Garrison Infirmary by his men after he had saved their lives in the woods he had made his home.*

Unfortunately, the man had been very sick and had awakened in the night and in his madness, had taken young Joubert's life, who had been resident there at the time, and injured others. Athos included. It had caused a stand-off, before d'Artagnan had managed to overpower the man.

By the time, Athos was well, Joubert's body had been returned to his family for burial in the family plot. Athos had an impression of the young man, but could not place him. He had been heavily sedated and the memory of that terrible night was lost to him.

"I can understand a man's grief, but why would the uncle wish to kill the King?" Athos asked.

"Given Spanish involvement, it is my belief that the King was a secondary target. It was you four he wanted and what better place then to have you all immobile, on guard outside that tent?"

"The man, Bernier, was a veteran," Athos stated. "He suffered his mental incapacity at La Rochelle, as I remember."

"He did," Treville replied. "Perhaps Minister Joubert also saw the King and, indeed, the Cardinal, as culpable."

"And we brought Bernier into our Infirmary, where he murdered his nephew, in cold blood."

"Bernier was very sick. You were not to know."

"And the Spanish?" Athos said, his tone flat.

"They are never slow in taking advantage of weakness, Athos. You know that."

"Or coercion," Athos said darkly.

Athos sighed and dropped the commission document back onto Treville's desk.

"Why now?" he said. "It has been some time since that incident."

"These things take time to fester," Treville sighed.

Athos huffed. He knew how that worked, well enough.

"All things considered, Minister Joubert appeared to be of good character. There is no telling whether he was "encouraged" in his grief by our friends in Spain, or whether he finally succumbed under the weight of it. Apparently, he lost his wife a few weeks ago."

"So all his family were eventually lost."

"How many others are there, who suffer – their fuse ready to be lit?" Treville growled.

"We must be ever vigilant, Captain," Athos replied. "This was unprecedented."

"I have every confidence that you will be," Treville responded, reaching for his brandy and waving Athos to a nearby chair.

 **End.**

oOo

Thanks for reading!

*Chapter 24 "Stand-off" relates to Bernier's story.


	85. A Brother To Hold

**A/N** : My grateful thanks to everyone who continues to read these Talks. This one is very short, I know, but it may not be the only one under this title.

oOo

 **85\. A BROTHER TO HOLD**

 **Porthos, Aramis and Athos:**

"It's not workin'"

"Hold him!"

" _Aramis!"_

"It's fragmented. I can't find it!"

"He's half awake!"

"I can't stop now, Porthos!"

A reluctant, whispered ackowledgement; "Alright. Keep goin'"

A scream, Athos's face buried in Porthos's chest; the only gift Porthos can give him.

They've both heard him yell, but never scream. It is shocking.

It spurs them on.

Gasps, and breath held.

Porthos gently wipes Athos's tears, and swipes at his own. He wants it to end. His heart is breaking.

Aramis battles on while Porthos struggles, and Athos quietly sobs.

"For pity's sake, he's 'ad enough!"

"I _can't_ ..."

"Sweet _Jesus_..."

Another sob, but not from Athos, finally limp in his arms …

"I see it! Blessed Holy Mother, I see it, Porthos!"

The bloody fragment is finally dropped onto the metal plate. The small size belies its significance. It is _hope_ and the signal to breathe again.

Aramis has turned away, leaning on the table with shaking arms.

Porthos softly wipes Athos's lax face with gentle fingers and bends to kiss his forehead, before laying him down.

He turns to Aramis.

Now he has another brother to hold.

But, who will hold _him?_

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	86. A Brother To Hold (2)

**A/N:** This follows on a few days after A Brother to Hold (1):

oOo

 **86\. A BROTHER TO HOLD (2)**

 **Porthos and Athos:**

"Wake up. It's gettin' late."

"Hmm."

"I mean it, Athos. Aramis don't want you sleepin' much longer. He needs to 'ave a look at you."

"Ath?"

"Hmm?"

"You hurtin'?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Hmm. What?"

"You in pain? You're pretty groggy."

"I was shot."

"Yeah. S'why I'm askin'. You hurtin'?"

"Not like before."

"Yeah. It was real bad. So, you're alright?"

"Debatable."

"Hmm. Like I said, it was bad."

"Porthos?"

"Yeah?"

"Are _you_ alright?"

"Yeah, 'course I am. Wasn't me that was shot. Hush now."

"Porthos. Look at me."

"What was that word you used?"

"Thirsty?"

"Nah, it wasn't that. Began with a "d."

"Dying for a drink?"

"Don't say that."

"Apologies. But, it is the truth."

"I can get Aramis if you're in pain?"

" _Porthos!_ "

Porthos picked up the watered ale and slipped his arm under Athos's shoulders, raising him.

As Athos carefully drank, he brought his arm up onto Porthos's back.

When Porthos lowered the cup and turned to replace it, Athos held him firmly.

Porthos's breath left him with a shuddered sigh and he dropped his forehead into Athos's shoulder.

Athos continued to hold him, just while Porthos caught his breath.

Just until then.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

"A Brother to Hold (3)" Aramis and Athos, is next.


	87. A Brother To Hold (3)

**A/N:** So, we continue this quartet of Talks. Why is Aramis so angry? Let's turn back the clock to the first day ...

 **87\. A BROTHER TO HOLD (3)**

 **Aramis and Athos:**

 **The first evening:**

A fever was inevitable, given Aramis's search for the musket ball's missing fragment.

Even though copious amounts of wine had been used to flood the wound in his friend's side, Aramis was already considering their next steps.

Exhausted as he was, he refused to rest, as Porthos sat beside Athos.

For Aramis was labouring under the indisputable fact that Athos had taken the bullet for _him,_ and that was a heavy burden to bear.

It was Porthos then, who had taken up the vigil, while Aramis busied himself preparing his concoctions and organising the linen, putting the Laundry on stand-by. Porthos watched mutely as Aramis threw open the windows and called on his brother-in-arms to bring water. Perhaps they would be lucky and all would not be needed.

But when were these three ever lucky?

Yesterday's ambush was evidence of that.

The night was long.

The fever spiked at periods throughout the night, and then dropped away. As soon as they relaxed, the pattern repeated. It left them fearful and exhausted.

They didn't hear Treville come in during the early hours, though they were grateful for his help. By the time the cockerel crowed beyond the walls, Athos was sleeping, unaware of the drama that had unfolded as bandages and sheets were changed and cloths were wrung out and refreshed with cold water before being replaced on his face, and where limb met body.

The next day passed in much the same way. The fever continued to spike at intermittent intervals, though Aramis and Porthos settled into a routine of sorts.

Finally, the fever abated and Athos had woken.

Some time later, unbeknown to Porthos, Aramis had watched from the corridor beyond the open door as Athos had thanked Porthos, even managing to comfort him. He did not begrudge Porthos that, but he himself kept an emotional distance.

For Aramis was angry.

A simmering rage had started to consume him since Athos's fever had broken.

The atmosphere became heavier as Aramis sat at the table but stared at the wall in front of him.

Finally, he turned to see Athos was watching him. It was then that Aramis locked eyes with Athos. No longer frantically trying to save his life, he could contain his question no longer;

" _Why did you do it!"_

"Do what?" Athos replied, wearily.

"Don't be obtuse."

"Then do not be a hypocrite."

"What did you say?"

"You heard me. You know what I mean. I do not have to explain myself."

"Oh, I think you do."

Athos continued to hold his friend's angry gaze, his own temper now on show.

"Do you _think_ ," Athos finally said slowly, and in a tone Aramis had not heard before, "That the King's life is worth more to me than the lives of my _brothers_?"

Aramis frowned, wiping his hands on a cloth, before throwing it on the table beside him.

"You are oath-bound," he replied, flatly.

"Yes, to him and to France. The day I became a King's Musketeer.

"It is my duty," Athos continued. "I would give my life for it. I will not break my oath.

"But here," he added, tapping his chest and laying his hand on his heart, "lies an equally strong bond which is not driven by duty. Allow me to honour it, for I cannot live any other way.

Athos sighed then and his tone had softened when he continued;

"We three will always be brothers," he said. "And, by my honour, and my love, I will protect you both. By any means available to me."

Aramis did not trust himself to speak. He looked around, but Porthos had quietly let himself out of the room and could not offer his own counsel.

Athos watched Aramis stand and walk to the window, where he leant on the sill and breathed in the cool air; his anger visibly draining out of him.

Finally, after some moments, he turned and found his voice;

"And self sacrifice?"

"If it is our gift to give," Athos replied, gently. "Then, yes. Though I cannot speak for you both."

Aramis raised his head.

"But you do, brother. You do."

Athos's words had struck home with him. And yes, he was a hypocrite, for he would do the same. He would give his life for them.

In an instant.

oOo

Thanks for reading! Porthos and Aramis have the last chat in this quartet, coming soon.


	88. A Brother To Hold (4)

**89\. A BROTHER TO HOLD (4)**

 **Porthos and Aramis:**

It was late afternoon when Aramis emerged from the Infirmary, spying Porthos sitting alone at their bench beneath Treville's balcony.

Porthos looked up as Aramis made his way over. He let out a low laugh, relieved to see his friend away from his self-imposed watch over their third. Aramis grinned in return, wiping a rag across the back of his neck, before stepping over the bench and sitting down.

"Is 'e alright?" Porthos asked as he settled.

"Asleep," Aramis replied, quietly.

"Best thing," Porthos replied, before narrowing his eyes and tilting his head back to peer intently at the man. "You two sorted yerselves out?"

"He is one stubborn man," Aramis replied, throwing the rag on the table.

Porthos assessed his friend. He looked thoroughly done in. Dark shadows smudged the skin beneath his eyes and his demeanour was that of a man who sorely needed his bed, even though the sun would not set for some hours yet.

"Well, that makes two of you," Porthos grunted, reaching for the wine that Serge had left him earlier, in anticipation of Aramis finally joining him.

"I'm sorry," Aramis murmured, as he watched Porthos pour wine into two cups.

"For what?" Porthos said, pausing and frowning at him.

Aramis ran his hand through his hair in a familiar gesture.

"I didn't hear you leave," he sighed.

Pothos hummed, and continued to pour.

"It was just after he called you a hypocrite," he grunted, pushing the cup across the table.

"He was right," Aramis replied, softly.

"Ain't takin' sides," Porthos said, raising his cup.

"I wouldn't ask you to," Aramis said, touching Porthos's cup with his. "And, he _was_ right."

Porthos took a long swallow.

"Little bit," he replied, watching for his friend's reaction.

When it came, it was without force;

"He has a way of explaining things, our dear Athos."

Porthos smiled, widely.

"Yeah, he doesn't say much, but when he does ..."

"Straight to the point," Aramis agreed.

"Takes no prisoners," Porthos countered, as they chinked cups again.

"True," Aramis responded, as they both drank.

"Blunt," Porthos nodded.

"Succinct," Aramis replied.

"Is 'e still mad at you?"

Aramis sighed as he watched Porthos refill their cups, neither barely registering what they had already consumed.

"How is it," Aramis began carefully, "That _I_ was the angry one, and yet I end up apologising to _him_?"

"S'what he does," Porthos smiled. "Sees what's needed an' turns things around."

"Remarkable," Aramis murmured.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed. "He is."

"But, if he does such a foolhardy thing again," Aramis added, darkly, "I _will_ kill him."

"Save a lot of hassle," Porthos grunted, rubbing his fingers into his forehead, working at a headache that had been with him for the last few hours.

"It would indeed," Aramis replied, absently draining his cup.

"'Cos, I wouldn't like to go through that again," Porthos said, with a sigh, shaking his head. The images of that first night would take some time to dislodge.

"Are _you_ alright?" Aramis asked, reaching out and laying his hand on Porthos's forearm.

Porthos looked down at his friend's hand and then back toward the Infirmary, before he slowly smiled.

"Yeah. I am now," he said. "You?"

In response, Aramis raised his cup once more.

"Tomorrow is a new day, my friend," he said, brightly, despite his weariness.

"Let's drink to that, then," Porthos nodded, solemnly.

The enthusiastic chink of their pewter cups rang around the yard, along with their easy laughter.

Above them, Treville gently closed his door, with a smile of his own. It seemed that the world had righted itself once more, and all was well.

For the time being, at least.

oOo

 **End**

 **A/N:** So that's the end of this little quartet. Thanks for reading!


	89. The Gift of Self

This one follows on time-wise from the last chapter. It starts as an innocent discussion in the Infirmary, but Athos's request leaves Porthos having to face long-buried emotions.

 **89\. THE GIFT OF SELF**

 **Porthos and Athos:**

 _Somewhere in the mists of time, a small, dark-skinned wide-eyed urchin watches from the shadows as the rich people of Paris enter an establishment and exit with their purchases held carefully, nay, reverently, in their hands._

 _The boy has learned to steal to exist._

 _But he will not steal from these particular people. He will not take their precious purchases._

 _There is a barrier, which he will not cross. It is not in deference to these rich people though. It is to do with the very core of his being._

Now, almost thirty years later, he still has not crossed that barrier. But he is about to.

He will not do so willingly. A friend will reach into the past and pull him from his self-imposed restriction.

He will resist, for he has not realised the barrier still exists, that that small boy still resides within him. But his friend is perhaps the only one who can break his mental block and give him the gift of self. For he himself had been one of those rich people and had seen food used as power.

The sweet confectioners were part of that as a new wave of baker and patisserie served the royal court of successive French monarchs.

And so, when Porthos asked a recovering Athos that morning in the Infirmary if there was anything he wanted as he completed his recuperation, no-one was prepared when he said, "gateaux."

Gateaux, the commodity Porthos unconsciously associated with his five year-old self. The child who had learned his place.

Porthos had been dumbstruck by the simple word, as Athos waved him to his jacket, hung on the back of a chair in the corner of the room.

"How much?" he finally asked, his mouth dry.

"Whatever you want," Athos replied, watching him quietly.

"Not the coin," Porthos replied. "How much cake?"

"That depends," Athos replied, "On how generous you are feeling."

"It ain't my money," Porthos growled.

"It is now."

After Porthos had finally taken the purse and left the room, Aramis crossed the room and sat on the end of Athos's bed.

"What was that about?" he asked, bemused.

"The strictures of symbolism," Athos replied.

Intrigued, Aramis sat back to await Porthos's return.

"Explain," he finally said, drawing his feet up and sitting cross-legged on the cot.

"When you see a church, what do you do?" Athos said.

"Go in?" Aramis replied with a smile.

"Before that," Athos murmured.

Aramis shook his head in confusion.

"You cross yourself," Athos said, softly.

"Do I?"

"You do. Would you go inside without doing it?"

"I don't know," Aramis added, truthfully. "I have never considered it."

"And if it were a church that was not your denomination, how would you feel about entering?"

"I'd probably still cross myself," Aramis replied.

"So it is a password of sorts?" Athos continued, crossing his arms.

"I suppose so," Aramis replied, "Where is this going?"

"Porthos needs a password," Athos said, simply.

"For cake?"

"This is not about cake. This is about his sense of self." Athos replied.

oOo

Porthos loved his food.

Athos, though, had never seen him eat cake.

Or express a liking for it.

Having given him the money, and made the request, Athos knew that Porthos would buy the best he could, because he would want to please his brother. That is what Athos is counting on.

That is, if Porthos can cross the threshold.

For something had happened, that had prevented Porthos completing that simple task.

Porthos would never buy it for himself, he had never entered the patisseries of Paris. He had bought bread in the local bakeries, but the elegant patisseries that had sprung up in the wealthy streets of the city over the years had not enticed him.

Indeed, when they had encountered one, Porthos had made a point of crossing the street. It had been a puzzle.

Athos had finally figured it out.

Porthos had broken through so many barriers in his lifetime, but this seemingly simple one, ran deep.

It was a self-inflicted taboo.

And Athos hated taboos.

oOo

 _The boy stood in the shadows across the street, watching the elegant ladies and gentlemen enter and exit with their exquisite purchases, wrapped in coloured paper._

 _He had held out his hand to people on the street, but never to these people. He had remained in the shadows, looking at the window from across the street._

That boy had grown up now, but still, he felt he could not cross the threshold and enter that magical establishment.

Porthos had now passed several patisseries, Athos's coin purse burning in his pocket.

Finally, he came to the small shop with a bowed window. A window full of the most amazing products. Large and small cakes filled the window. He watched as the owner leaned in and selected several before returning to his counter and wrapping them for his customer.

Indeed, a steady stream of customers came to the threshold, and had no trouble entering.

oOo

 _He was hungry._

 _And alone now, his mother gone some three months._

 _She had been a strong woman and had instilled some values into him, as much as she could with such a small child, but the deck was stacked against her. She could not change the colour of his skin._

 _He had been running with his small band of urchin friends, flying across the roof tops around the Court, when they had strayed into a wealthier part of the city. His friends dropped down into the street, looking for a mark, someone to steal from._

 _Still in his place above them, something caught Porthos's eye._

 _An older, well-dressed couple leaving a shop up ahead, and he lay on his belly on the roof and watched, eyeing them up as potential beneficiaries._

 _He looked around for his friends, but they were gone._

 _He looked back at the couple, now moving toward the patisserie._

 _They had all looked through that window with watering mouths, before the owner had seen them off in no uncertain terms, armed first with a broom and then with a sword, his business worth more than the life of a vagabond._

 _Walking a few paces behind the couple was a small boy._

 _A dark-skinned boy._

 _Their servant._

 _With a flick of his finger, the man ordered the boy to remain outside._

 _Obeying, he had waited outside for them. He had not been allowed in the shop._

 _Other servants followed their masters and mistresses inside. But not this boy._

 _Not this one._

 _And in the moment, six year old Porthos realised something._

 _The colour of his skin meant nothing to his friends, but not so down there on the street._

 _Like this boy, he was not worthy._

oOo

That memory was still vivid, brought about by the sight and smells from the shop before him and by the steady stream of people entering and exiting. It still had the power to make his hands shake, to avoid eye contact with anyone who looked his way. There were no dark-skinned servants today, but that did not matter, the memory was there, as it always was when he looked at such a place.

 _No-one had looked at the boy and he looked at no-one._

 _He stood apart though his face was turned to the wall._

 _Ahead, Porthos saw his friends appear and he knew that, although they did not see_ his _colour, they would see this boy's, and his different clothes. He therefore climbed down from his high perch and ran to head them off._

 _As he ran past the boy, he slowed. The boy turned his head and their eyes met._

 _They were not the eyes of a child. They were lifeless._

 _Porthos did not speak, or smile. He stared._

 _It was something he would berate himself for later, whenever he thought of that boy._

 _And then, he ran._

 _He had not thought of life beyond the Court of Miracles. He had learned how to live there, and since his mother had passed, he had learned to survive. Who to apprach, and who to avoid. It was all he knew, until that morning, staring into those eyes, devoid of life, and perhaps, of hope._

 _From that morning, Porthos wanted more._

 _As he grew, he decided that he would steal what he needed, do what he had to, and earn what he could but he would never trail after anyone, to be left outside a shop like a dog and be made to carry their purchases. Perhaps, in that, he was more fortunate than that boy, whose life was dictated by his masters. Porthos was at least free._

That boy would be a man now. He hoped he had bettered himself, but, remembering the cast of hopelessness about him, he doubted it.

As a boy, Porthos was aware of the ships that unloaded the commodities from the West Indies and beyond. The product they called "sugar" that commanded an eye-watering price but had led to the new wave of bakery shops, patisseries they were called, in the wealthy parts of the city. Later, as a Musketeer, he had seen the work of the celebrated chefs who filled Louis's table with all manner of fantastic creations. He saw, but he never touched. Food to him, was fuel.

But, ironically, something still ate at him from that day long ago. Like a worm in an apple.

He had broken down many barriers since that day. But not this one.

It was a confused muddle in his mind, but the catalyst was this patisserie, where it all began. A hallowed place he could not enter. Pride, perhaps, but if that was the case, he would have strode in there long ago, back straight and eyes straight ahead. That was how he had broken down barriers before. Leaving the Court, his childhood friends, joining the infantry and then, his pride and joy, the Musketeers. Marching straight ahead.

But not in this.

And now, Athos had stirred it all up with a simple request.

Granted, it was out of character of the man, but perhaps he had a hankering for something frivolous. Lord knows, he can't have been a stranger to the fine setting of a table, being a Comte and all. But, on the other hand, Athos had recently survived a terrible ordeal and he could not deny his request. He wasn't to know what it would take for him to set foot in a place where an innocent slave-child was deemed not worthy of entering.

And then, he laughed.

Because he realised what Athos was doing.

This wasn't about cake.

This was about something much deeper.

Athos knew nothing about the boy. How could he?

This was about his idea of his own worth. Athos, ever one to see below the surface, had recognised it. This was his friend, reaching into the shadows of time, and pulling him whole, into the present.

Smiling now, Porthos straightened his back, reached into his pocket and, taking a deep breath, he crossed the street to fulfil his promise to Athos. And to claim Athos's gift to him.

oOo

Inside, he found he was, indeed, just another customer.

Used to being respected, mostly, as a King's Musketeer, he realised he did not have his pauldron on, but it did not matter. Leaving Athos's purse untouched, he paid with his own money, won fair and square, for once, he chuckled to himself, in a card game the previous evening.

The owner bid him good-day, as he stepped back out into the sunshine, his purchase in his hands.

It was nothing to do with the shop, which had become a symbol of oppression, borne in the eyes of a sad child. In reality, it was the cruel will of that man who had sought to exercise control of the child, his servant. Who was to know if he did that with all his staff, not just that one?

This was not about the colour of skin. This was about money and power. Having money meant a person could choose. Porthos knew then that he would not enter a patisserie again, as their existence and success depended on slave labour. But neither would he think he was unworthy to do so. It was his choice.

Strange that it took a once-noble, now-brother to show him that, with so few words and with no knowledge of the reason.

Now, he carried his own purchase back to his brothers with a lighter heart.

oOo

Aramis and Athos both looked up as Porthos entered the Infirmary.

He held a plate in his hand, and his package in the other.

He looked completely different to the man who had left under a cloud, as he proudly unwrapped the paper to reveal the most elaborate slab of gateaux.

Later, after licking his fingers, Porthos folded the paper into a square, and then folded it again, pressing his thumb reverently along the crease. He put it carefully into his pocket.

Looking up, he caught Athos looking at him.

"Thank you," Athos said.

Porthos was taken aback. It was _he_ who should be giving his thanks. It was all he could do to nod his head.

Athos caught Aramis's eye and they shared a smile.

Growing up in his family home, Athos had waved away more food than he had accepted. La Fere showed its wealth in that grand house and the dinners his father held for those of influence. Dinners which included the finest confection. Had he thought about it at the time, he may have thought it decadent, but it was the norm.

Porthos's behaviour had intrigued him.

He was sure that as a child, Porthos could have run swiftly after some of the rich people and snatched their wares from their hands. But he had once confessed to never having tasted cake, and so it was evident that he had not gone after the purchasers of that particular commodity.

It didn't matter if Porthos ate cake or not. It didn't matter what had happened to prevent him entering a patisserie. The important thing was that he had crossed the threshold and put his coin on the counter, the same as any other customer.

"As you know, food is a symbol of wealth, Porthos," Athos had said later. "You have seen many such symbols since you rose from the Court of Miracles. You wear the symbols of our regiment, the pauldron and the cloak. You have seen the trappings of the Royal Court, the jewellery and wealth of those who attend. The patisseries of Paris are another example of indulgence, nothing more. This one," he added, waving at the empty plate, "is just sweet pastry. One day, I am sure it will be common place."

Athos had reached out and pulled a small, hungry, shamed child from the shadows and in doing so, had helped him to break his taboo. Whatever he had experienced in his traumatic early days, such experiences could damage, but for Porthos, they had also instilled a drive for betterment.

Today, Porthos needed a gentle final push, and he had been happy to oblige.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

 **A/N:**

In 1270, Regnaut-Barbon decided he wanted to make oublies (confectioners' ancestors) and pastries.

Puff pastry was created in 1540 by Popelini. Twenty six years later, in1566, the oublies were renamed confectioners.

In the seventeenth century, Anne of Austria brought chocolate to France from the Spanish court and the concept of "pieces montees" (decoratively mounted confectionery centrepieces) made its entrance in Versailles.

It is believed that the foliated pastry was invented in 1630 by a French painter.

In 1638 France tasted tartelettes amandine for the first time.

And of course, French Queen Marie Antoinette, when told the poor had no bread and were starving, is _reported_ to have said, "Let them eat cake." Either reflecting her disregard for the peasants, or her poor understanding of the situation. There is, however, no record of her having said it.

Today, the term "patisserie" remains a legally controlled title in France and Belgium that may only be used by bakeries that employ a licensed maître patissier (master pastry chef).

I'm off to eat cake.


	90. I'm Goin' to Stay 'ere and Chat

**90\. I'M GOIN' TO STAY 'ERE AND CHAT**

 **Porthos and Athos:**

Muster was an hour away.

Men were filling the mess, scrambling for food to break their fast before filing into the yard to hear the day's duties.

Having searched the Garrison, Porthos finally found Athos tucked away in one of the Infirmary rooms.

Stretched out on the cot, a book in his hand, Athos is unaware of his approach, until his friend is standing over him. For a large man, he is stealthy when he wants to be.

Athos sighs inwardly.

"Shift up," Porthos says.

Athos draws his legs up as Porthos sits on the end of the bed and shuffles back until his back is against the wall, legs across the bed and feet hanging off the side.

After a moment of silence, Porthos risked a glance.

"You melancholy?" he asked, voice low, careful.

He was used to Athos maintaining a certain distance, they all were. But he had withdrawn a little more than normal over the past few days, and it was unusual for him to miss the first meal of the day. It was probably the only one he would eat, unless cajoled by them when they trooped into The Wren at the day's end. Even then, it was not a given.

Athos did not look up but a small smile graced his lips.

"I would have said, " _thoughtful_ ," Athos replied, "But well done, nonetheless."

Porthos beamed.

"I've got a good teacher," he said. He had started to like using words that he never would ever have dreamed of using, before he met Athos. Some of them still caught on his tongue, but some he liked.

He had a bowl in his hand, which he placed on the mattress between them.

"What's that you've got there?" Athos asked, patiently waiting while Porthos got his bulk comfortable, bouncing them both around a bit.

Porthos lifted the bowl up and showed it to Athos.

"Walnuts."

They chatted briefly about the walnut tree, which Porthos had scavenged.

"Did you get them all?" Athos asked, knowing he had, but had, no doubt, given the majority away to the locals.

"What's that you've got?" Porthos asked, repeating Athos's earlier question, his eyes on the small volume in Athos's hand.

In response, Athos passed it to him.

"You know, I'm not good with readin'" Porthos mumbled, warily.

" _Yet_ ," Athos replied, softly.

Porthos grunted, and opened it.

It was a sketch book.

He slowly turned the stiff pages.

Carefully drawn sketches met his gaze;

 _A casement window ... two women working in a field ... a horses's head. A tree …_

"Nice tree," Porthos said. "Think I must have been about six when I saw my first tree. I thought the world was made up of stinkin' dark alleys and ..."

"The world can be a dark place," Athos whispered, interrupting him.

Porthos looked up to see Athos staring at the open sketchbook on Porthos's lap, something akin to torment in his eyes.

The tree at the left of the page; the meadow stretching across to the right …

Porthos carefully closed it and passed it back.

"I didn't know you were an artist," he said. "They're good."

When Athos looked up, Porthos was looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

"My brother's," Athos replied quietly, taking it and putting it on the bedside table.

He sighed.

The book was actually a comfort; only one of a few possessions he had brought with him to Paris. It was this new day that itself bore down on him. The trouble with marrying your bride on her birthday was the resultant memory of two anniversaries. It did not seem to get any easier as the years passed and he was taking a few quiet moments before muster to steel himself into endurance.

Porthos lifted a walnut out of the bowl and held it up, stirring him from his reverie.

Athos watched him, waiting.

Porthos twisted it in his palm and then closed his fist. The nut cracked under the pressure. Opening his hand in triumph, he showed the contents to Athos.

"I'm impressed," Athos said, tilting his head; though he knew his friend's strength and had been impressed many times.

"You try," Porthos said, discarding the shell and scooping up the walnut pieces and dropping them into his mouth, before picking up another and tossing it to Athos.

Athos caught it deftly, but he was under no illusion that that _was_ the only thing he would do with it. However, to humour his friend, he tightened his fist around it.

Nothing happened.

Porthos let out a huge laugh, before taking it back.

"See, Athos, walnuts have 'ard shells, but you've just got to know 'ow to crack them."

He turned it in his hand and then illustrated by another successful exhibition of his strength.

"Don't need a hammer," he finished, grinning at Athos.

"So I see," Athos intoned, wondering if he was going to be treated to Porthos cracking open every walnut in the bowl. "You are a Master of the Idiom," he added.

Porthos raised an eyebrow but there was no sarcasm written on Athos's face.

"I'll explain later," Athos smiled.

"Same with eggs," Porthos continued, happily.

"Eggs?" Athos frowned.

"Yeah," Porthos replied.

He held up his hand and made a fist.

"This way," he said, by way of explanation, "you break the shell." He shook his hand, miming shaking egg from his palm.

Then, he held up his finger and thumb, a few inches apart.

"Squeeze it _this_ way," he continued, "An' it won't break."

"Is that right?" Athos nodded, humouring him.

"Damn straight. I'll show you later," he said.

"I shall look forward to it," Athos murmured.

"So," Porthos replied, dropping his hand onto his lap. "What's makin' you melancholy?"

"Melancholic," Athos corrected, absently.

Porthos nodded, unperturbed by the correction.

That's what he liked about Athos. There was no judgement. Just acceptance. Always had been. Porthos wanted to understand him. To know what ailed him. What made him "melancholic." But no matter how many of these chats the two of them had, Porthos found nothing out.

But he always learned something.

Suddenly, Athos sat up and emitted a sharp cry, reaching for his foot.

Porthos beat him to it, dropping one hand on his knee and the other around his foot, pushing it up firmly and holding it. Gradually, the cramp eased and Athos relaxed.

"You should eat more," Porthos growled. "Aramis says muscle cramp 'appens when you don't eat the right things."

"Does he," Athos grunted. "I will bear that in mind. Perhaps it happens when you don't drink enough."

Porthos laughed, carefully letting go of Athos's foot.

Eyeing the sketchbook on the table, Porthos took a breath;

"Do you miss it?" he asked, gently.

Athos carefully flexed his toes before looking up.

"Do I miss what?" he asked, warily.

Porthos dipped his hand into the bowl of walnuts and pushed them around. They rattled against the pewter, the only sound in a room gone still.

"Your old life," Porthos replied, meeting his gaze.

Athos shifted uncomfortably and Porthos thought he had gone too far.

His brother was a very private man. Usually, if he was going to impart such a confidence, it would be under his own terms; not in answer to an unguarded question. But when Athos frowned, as though he was actually thinking about responding, Porthos relaxed a little. He never pried, because some answers were just too difficult to respond to. Athos came from a different world. One of privilege that he himself could only imagine. He'd probably never been hungry, or cold. Never without coin.

He'd almost certainly never been invisible.

Athos took a breath.

And promptly threw the question back at him.

"Do you?"

Porthos let out a short breath and pursed his lips in thought.

"Not the life," he said quietly, his dark eyes taking on a far-away look.

"Knew no different, as a little 'un," he continued. "But later, a couple of people … they made it bearable."

Athos pushed his hair back from his forehead and left his hand there while he considered his own response. After a moment, his hand drifted to the locket he wore around his throat; his hair flopping back into his now-clouded eyes.

Finally, he said, "Yes, I can understand that."

A silence fell between them then, broken only by the occasional rattle of walnuts against pewter. Porthos suddenly looked down at his hand in the bowl.

"I'm 'ungry," he grunted.

"That makes a change," Athos said quietly, glad of the turn in the conversation.

"All this talk of eggs 'n walnuts," Porthos said, his own voice lighter now.

Athos huffed.

"We could be talking about mucking out the stables, Porthos, and you would say that," he replied, though his voice was soft.

Porthos nodded in agreement.

It was true, he was always hungry. Definitely a legacy of his past.

He wondered if Athos's apparent lack of appetite, or more correctly, his disinterest in food, was a legacy of his old life. Though he would not voice it. It was an answer he would not be able to deal with. They were worlds apart in some things, and this most basic need was one of them.

But he laughed at the truth of Athos's observation. Mucking out a stable had never dampened his appetite.

"Not much puts me off my vituals, it's true," he chuckled.

"Come on," he added, dropping his hand onto Athos's shin. "If Aramis finds us in his Infirmary, he'll 'ave our guts for garters."

Athos grimaced at the image.

"Since when was it "his" Infirmary?" he grunted.

"Do _you_ want it?" Porthos replied, eyebrows raised.

Athos huffed.

Point taken.

In more ways than one.

"Thank you," Athos said suddenly.

"For what?" Porthos asked. Athos hadn't told him anything about what ailed him, but his spirits seemed to have lifted.

Athos reached across and patted his shoulder. A rare occurrence.

"For the walnuts, of course."

Both men stood and Porthos gently pushed Athos forward. They left the Infirmary, emerging into bright sunshine.

As Porthos walked ahead, Athos watched his retreating back. Thomas's sketchbook was back in his pocket. Later, he would add his own sketch into the back of the book, to remind him of this day. Of the value of simple words. Of Porthos's gentleness.

And of idioms; an egg and a walnut.

Both, according to Porthos, hard shelled, but easy to crack. _If_ you knew how.

He had walked into the Infirmary at first light with a heavy heart, lost in a bitter-sweet memory. That was now coloured with friendship, and the day looked brighter.

Ahead of him, Porthos smiled to himself.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

May I wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and thank you all for your continued support. I will never take it for granted.


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